It's All Crazy! It's All False! It's All Right
by HUTCCCH
Summary: In which Kenny tries to change his man-whore ways to win Butters' heart, Stan tries to figure out the prude enigma that is Kyle, and Craig follows gnome poop to find Tweek's missing underwear. Bunny, Style, Creek.
1. It's All Crazy!

**Warning: **

**The following contains the following: Swearing. Lots of swearing. Gnomes. Lots of gnomes. Gay. Lots and lots of gay. If you're opposed to any of the stated, then get the fuck out of here.**

**Disclaimer:**

**I do not, have not, and will probably never own South Park. This fact is the bane of my existence. **

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"Hey Butters."

"W-well heya, Eric. How're you today?"

"I'm just fine, Butters, just fine."

"That's awful nice to hear. I'm just waitin' for Kenny to pick me up. We're going to Bennigans!"

"Glad to hear it, Butters. I'm surprised Kenny is making time to come out with you..."

"W-whaddya mean, Eric?"

"Butters, let me tell you a little secret..."

* * *

"YOU TOLD HIM WHAT?"

I'm Kenny McCormick and holy shit, I'm angry. Actually, I'm not just angry. I'm furious. I'm vivid. I wants to rip all the teeth right out of Eric Cartman's goddamn smirking, lying mouth and shove them right up his fat ass.

Eric, as formerly mentioned, just smirks from where he's perched upon my bed. "I just told him that you were busy screwing Bebe's blond little brains out and probably wouldn't make it to Bennigans."

"Goddammit Cartman, you fat piece of shit! You _know_ that isn't true!"

Well, okay, maybe it was. But that bitch doesn't mean anything to me and I so _would have_ made it to Bennigans had Butters not called me, told me that I'm a jerk, and vowed never to see me again.

Eric shrugs non-nonchalantly and lays on his side, propping his head up with one hand. "It may have been, knowing you, Kenneh."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well," Eric says, tapping his chin thoughtfully with one finger. "You are kind of a man-whore."

Something snaps. I don't know what, and honest to God, I don't really care. That fat son-of-a-bitch is going down.

The next thing I know, I'm across the room, my hands are gripping something as hard as they can, and Cartman is screaming and flailing and...choking?

"LET ME GO, KENNEH!"

"I'M GOING TO FUCKING MURDER YOU, YOU DICKHOLE!"

There's a slam and the sound of footsteps and I feel hands on my arms, prying my hands away from Cartman's tubby neck. I wants to claw out those goddamn eyes glaring at me as I'm physically dragged off the bed. Stan is suddenly on top of me, pinning down my flailing limbs, repeating, "Calm down, Ken, he's not worth it." I want to punch Stan in his stupid little face for stopping me in my attempted murder.

"SHUT UP, YOU GODDAMN HIPPY, AND LET ME KILL HIM!"

Stan looks hurt, and I feel kind of bad, but I'm waaaay to pissed to really care right now. Stan doesn't say anything back, but is resolutely holding me down. I can see Kyle in the background, trying to quell Cartman. Goddammit, all I want is to punch the life out of Cartman. You'd think Stan and Kyle would _support_ that. But I stops squirming, because Stan Kenny in strength, and both of us know that. And besides. Stan's straddling me. And Stan is yummy.

A few minutes pass, and I guess Stan gets too weirded out by the lecherous look I'm giving him, because he lets me go, gets up awkwardly, and kind of stumbles back toward where Kyle is chastising Eric for being such a dick. Eric is blatantly ignoring him in exchange for glaring daggers at me, which I dually return. Stan stands with his arms crossed, and says, "What the hell is going on here?"

I immediately answer, "I was killing Cartman."

"Clearly," Kyle says, with a roll of his eyes. I would think he, out of all people, would understand where I'm coming from! "But why?"

"Because," Eric says in his whiny, stupid voice. "I told Butters that Kenny was too busy fucking bitches and hoes to give him the time of day."

The room goes quiet. Shit.

Stan immediately looks at me with understanding pity, and Kyle's already saying, "Goddammit, Cartman, you fat piece of shit!" I groan and bury my face in my hands. I hate it when people pity me. I really do. People pity me all goddamn day for a lot of things. For my abusive parents, for my too-small clothes, for my addiction to cigarettes that I can't afford, for generally being poor. Who the hell gave them the right to be so high and mighty that they can pity me?

"Well, can you blame me?" Cartman retorts indignantly. "Kenneh is the biggest man-whore in the whole town."

I'm about to retort, but I close my mouth, because hell, it's true. I can see Kyle going to tell Cartman off too, but he pauses, thinks about it, and falls silent. Stan doesn't even try to refute it.

We four sit there for a while in silence, because no one knows what to say.

Eric is right.

I, Kenneth McCormick, am a certified man-whore.

* * *

I'm Stanley Marsh, and I'm shaking. Not with anger or anything, because I'm a pretty chill guy. It takes a lot to rile me up. But I'm shaking because my best friend, Kyle, is shaking. And Kyle is shaking, because he's got this nervous habit of jiggling his leg, which is right next to mine. Our thighs are pressed together as we sit there on the couch. I think it's pretty hot, but that's probably because I haven't got any since I broke up with my old girlfriend Wendy.

Why'd I break up with her, you may ask? Well, because for one thing, Wendy was as annoying as hell. She basically controlled everything I did; who I got to hang out with (and when), what I wore, what I ate...and the woman had our lives planned out, you know? You might think I'm over-exaggerating, but I promise you dude, I'm not. She had the date of our wedding set. She picked out names for our children (Elizabeth- after Elizabeth Cady Stanton, some really feminist chick- and Louise May Alcott- some other girl power chick who wrote _Uncle Tom's Cabin-_ if they were girls, and...well, she didn't want any boys. Wendy is very pro-woman. I respect women and all, but Jesus Christ!)

And well, the other reason is...see, I kind of have a crush. On this guy. I know that makes me sound totally gay, dude, but listen! It's not like it's any guy. It's not even a manly guy. I mean, it's on Kyle. Yeah, Kyle the guy with the shaky leg. My best friend. And Kyle...well, Kyle doesn't really count as a guy, does he?

Goddammit...okay, look. Kyle is a guy. He's a very manly guy because he's got no vagina and a penis. So that makes him a manly guy.

But...UGH. I can't explain this.

Do you even care?

Probably not.

But look, dude. I've got a problem. I really, really like Kyle. And my problem isn't that I'm gay. Everyone's a little gay. The problem is that I like _Kyle_. My Super Best Friend. Jesus Christ, are you getting this?

Speaking of whom, Kyle is glaring at me. Shit, why?

Calm down, Marsh, and survey the situation. We're sitting on the floor of my room, and we're playing video games...wait, since when?

"Uhm," I say intelligently.

"What the hell are you doing, Stan?"

"Wha?" Man, I'm sure on a roll with witty comebacks.

Kyle rolls his eyes and gestures at the screen, where the word "LOSER" floats on my side of the TV, my character laying limply on the virtual ground below it. "You've been sitting there for the past ten minutes, so I beat the shit out of your character. Well actually, I've beaten the shit out of your character about 5 times now."

I'm blushing like no other and I kind of feel like puking, but I get a feeling that that wouldn't go over well. I used to puke on Wendy all the time. I think it would give away my little crush if I puked all over Kyle.

"Sorry, dude," is all I can say. "I was just thinking."

Kyle looks like he's about to say, "What about?" but decides not to, because his eyes keep flickering back to the T.V. screen, and I can tell that he really really wants to play this video game. "Then stop day-dreaming, will you?" he says. "I really want to get to level 54, okay?"

"Yeah, sure," I say. "Whatever you want."

Kyle smiles brightly at me and turns his attention back to the screen, his fingers beginning to work furiously over the buttons on his control. He's so cute. I'm totally serious, dude.

I, Stanley Marsh, am head-over-heels for my best friend.

* * *

I'm Craig Thomas, and I'm nervous. Not just nervous. I'm so fucking nervous, I might shit myself.

I'm usually never nervous. I usually never care. I mean, what's there really to be nervous about in South Park? And I ask, what's there really to _care_ about in South Park?

For me, there's virtually nothing. Zip. Nada. Except for one thing. It's this twitching, shaking, jittery little blond kid sitting across from me, his long, scratch-covered hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. He's staring at me with these huge green eyes that disappear behind his lids basically every second, because his eye keeps twitching. "W-What did you want to ta-talk to me about?"

My back decides to break out in a ridiculous sweat at those words, and I swear, I'm drowning in all this fucking anxiety. Keep it cool, Tucker. You're cool. You're the biggest badass in South Park. You can do this.

"Look here, Tweekers," I say. I'm surprised that I'm able to keep my voice so monotone. Kudos to me. "I like you."

"J-Jeez! Well, I like you too, Cr-craig," He replies, looking at me skeptically. My heart is doing a fucking jig right now. I want to do a fucking jig right now. This is fucking perfect. Fuckfuckfuckingfuckfucker.

"If I didn't, why else w-would we be best friends?"

There goes my jig. Right off a bridge, committing suicide.

I take a deep breath. Just explain yourself, Tucker. "No, Tweek, I mean I _like_ you."

Tweek doesn't comprehend. I can tell by the way he stops twitching for a second, just a split second that most people wouldn't notice, and gives a little "Wha?" before he starts seizing worse than ever, saying, "Jesus Christ! It's too much pressure!"

I know he means it's too much pressure to understand what I'm telling him. So I do the only thing I can think of to do.

I reach out, grab the back of his skinny little neck, and jerk him forward. We're so close that our noses are bumping, but I'm leaning in closer. Closer. Closer. I feel our lips brush and I'm sweating everywhere, and I think he's finally starting to understand, because his eyes grow wide...

And he screams.

He jerks backwards, hands flying to his back. He's pulled away so fast that he falls on the ground, looking scandalized.

Holy. Shit.

I'm so fucking embarrassed. Am I really that bad?

Tweek is looking around wildly, bewildered. His hands keep flitting around everywhere, patting the ground, patting his pants, patting his face. "Jesus Christ!"

For some reason, I'm smirking. I sure as hell am not smirking on the inside, but there it is, settled on my face, making me look like such a goddamn smug bastard. "What's wrong, Tweekers?" Pf, as if I don't know. I'm revolting.

"The gnomes!" He cries, scrambling to his feet. "The gnomes!"

This kid is so fucking weird. It's hot.

"What?" Is what I say, in favor of telling him how hot he is. "What the hell are you talking about?"

He turns to me, grabbing the hem of my shirt, which starts to shake in accordance with him. "The gnomes," he says in a whisper. "The gnomes took my underwear."

I can't help it. I start laughing, but I feel kind of bad, because Tweek is looking at me, completely serious.

I, Craig Tucker, am in love with a complete fucking psycho.

* * *

**A/N: ;ajd;kfjad;lfja;ldf. I've been into the South Park fandom for so long that I _had_ to try and get out a multi-chaptered story. So here ya go.**

**Tell me what you think?**

**Next Chapter: Kenny goes to Kyle for advice to be less of a man-whore, Cartman and Craig make an unlikely friendship, Stan tries to work out the best way to express his affection, and Craig helps Tweek find where the gnomes have taken his underwear.**


	2. It's All False!

_Subject: Mr. Kenny McCormick._

_Location: The Broflovski house.  
_

I'm not sure what to do.

Lemme explain, okay? Just give me a moment to explain.

I've been...well, I've been a man-whore for as long as I can remember, which is since 3rd grade, in case you're wondering. I always was perving on everything and everyone that moved. I mean, I sure loved boobs. They totally killed me. Show me some boobs and I'd do anything for you, no matter how low or gritty it was. I'm still kind of that way, except boobs don't appeal to me as much. I mean, I'm a guy. What guy doesn't love a nice pair of tits from time to time? But it's when I compare boobs to Butters that boobs start to lack in importance.

Butters...jeez, how do I say this without sounding either like a total sap, a love-sick 12-year-old-girl, or both? Butters is a sweet kid. He's naive and hopeful and loves everyone. And by that I mean _everyone_. He's friends with Cartman. _Cartman_. The guy who planned the extermination of the Jews, who worships Hitler, who _fed a kid his parents in chili_ just because he didn't like him. It takes one helluva heart to like a lousy guy like that.

It's that big heart that I like best about Butters. He never judges me. He doesn't pity me like everyone else in this goddamn town. They all give me these stupid big puppy-dog eyes when they see me bumming cigarettes off anyone, when they see me pulling my too-small jacket across my chest, when they see me turn to the poor side of town. Butters doesn't do that. Butters will make small talk with the guy I'm taking a cigarette from. Butters will help me zip my jacket, even if it's too small to zip. Butters will stay the night at my house and not once complain about the lack of food, poor sanitation or cold nights. Butters is just that kind of guy. The kind of guy that isn't phony and is just caring and considerate and just all around great.

Which is why I'm willing to do what I'm about to do. I'm about to go to Kyle Broflovski for help.

Yeah, _that_ Kyle Broflovski. The smart-ass, firecracker of a Jew who just so happens to be my best friend. I know I'm not his- not his top one, at least. That spot is, and always has been and always will be, reserved for Stan. Which I'm totally fine with, I guess. But Kyle is the biggest prude I know, save for Wendy and I'm not going near that with a 40-foot pole.

I've got a lot to learn and I know that he could teach it.

It takes me approximately 13 minutes to walk to Kyle's house, and I'm hoping to God that he's home. If he's not home, I don't know what the hell I'm going to do. I seriously don't.

I reach the door and knock on it, shifting from foot to foot awkwardly. I hate waiting for people to answer their door, because if they don't answer, then you just stand there and if anyone is watching you, then you look like a total creep. It's the worst, I'm serious.

Luckily, though, the door gets answered. It's Ike, standing there looking all cutesy in his little footsy pajamas he wears, even though he's now 11-years-old. He's a cute one.

"Kenny?" He looks at me all confused and swipes at his eyes as if to get the sleep out. "Do you know what time it is?"

"It's noon, Ike. It's not early at all."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Well," he says uncomfortably, looking slightly sheepish. "Kyle's in his room."

I nod and scooch past him, heading for the stairs when I remember. "Stan..?"

Ike understands. That kid is a fucking genius. "Not here."

I breathe a sigh of relief and continue my trek to Kyle's room. His door is wide open, and he's sitting on his bed, a thick book in hand. He's got his little black rimmed glasses on. They're really cute on him. He barely looks up from his book when I walk in, patting the end of his bed lightly before turning a page. "Hey Ken."

"Hey Kyle."

I sit down cross legged and look out his window, not saying anything. Kyle, apparently, doesn't feel inclined to say anything either so we sit in a comfortable silence. After a while, the window gets really fucking boring to look at, so I stretch myself out on his bed and use his thigh as a pillow. He doesn't seem to mind.

It's shit like this that makes me think Kyle is my best friend. We're literally just sitting here and I'm completely content. I don't feel the need to do anything. I don't feel bored. Video games and T.V. and outdoor activities can suck my dick. As long as I can lay here with Kyle, not saying a word.

It must be an hour before he finally dog-ears a page, closes his book and looks down at me. "What's wrong?"

I sigh and sit up. Nap time is over, kiddies.

"Well, you see Ky," I start, an over-exaggerated sigh following. Kyle rolls his eyes. "I've got a problem."

"Kenny, I refuse to check your dick for STD's. I'm not falling for that one again."

Hahahahahaha. That's totally a story for another time, guys. I swear to God, you'll piss your pants when I tell you. It kills me every time I think about it.

"No, Kyle, I'm completely serious about this man," I say earnestly, grabbing his shoulders and shaking slightly. Kyle tells me to cut it out and swipes my hands away, and I make a game out of it. We spend the next ten minutes with me grabbing his shoulders and shaking him roughly and with him getting pissed off and punching me in the arm to make me let go. It's a total hoot.

"If you're not going to quit it, then get the hell out, Kenny. I'm meeting Stan in like thirty minutes," he says irritably. I laugh and stop, laying back down on his leg.

"All right, all right. Okay. To the serious stuff," I say, and Kyle looks slightly annoyed, but relieved. "I'm a man-whore, Kyle."

Kyle rolls his eyes and I _know_ he's about to do the whole, tell me something I don't know, thing and I hate that, so I slap a hand over his mouth.

"No, no, listen for a sec, will ya?" He rolls his eyes again but nods, so I let my hand slide off his face. "I'm a man-whore, and Butters doesn't like man-whores. But I like Butters."

"You like a lot of people, Kenny," he says, pulling his glasses off and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Enough to stick your penises places you shouldn't be sticking it."

"I don't _like_ those people," I say indignantly. It's true. I really don't. "I just like their bodies. But I _like_ Butters. But he doesn't like people like me."

"And what do you want me to do something about it?"

"I want you to make me less of a man-whore."

Kyle seems to understand, and he doesn't say anything for a while. He turns his hed to his window and stares out it, before he finally sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "You should go," he says. "I've got to meet Stan."

I grunt and sit up and shake my hair out and stand up, but I'm just stalling. He's just stalling on giving me an answer. He sighs again, but it's deep and tired and resigned, and I know I've won.

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Leopold "Butters" Stotch_

_Location: Little Park by Tom's Rhinoplasty_

I'm sitting on a swing, kicking my legs, and golly, I feel lonely. I ain't a guy whose got a lot of friends, you see. I mean, sure I've got friends. But none of them are really good enough to spend a lot of time with. I've got plenty of school friends, but outside of school is a different story.

At first, see, I hung out with Stan and Kyle and Eric, because Kenny had died and they tried to fill the void. It was really rotten of them to use me like that, but I can't be sore at them for it. They just missed their friend.

The only people I really spent time with after that were Kenny and Eric. Eric has always been a little rough and mean to me, but that's just his nature. He's kinda misunderstood, you know?

And Kenny...well, I thought Kenny was a pretty swell guy. But he started being pretty dang lousy when he started ditching me to do dirty things to ladies. I don't like that very much.

I don't like being alone on the swings very much either, though.

"Oh, why, hello there Butters."

I actually fall off my swing when I hear that. I scrape my palms on the mulch, which hurts an awful lot. There's someone by my side in an instant, grabbing my hand and surveying the damage. "Queen Mary!" is what that figure says, and I just know it's got to be Pip.

"I'm terribly sorry!" he's saying, and it's real sweet of him to care. Eric would be laughing at me right now, which would be rotten of him. But it's just the way he is.

"Golly, don't worry about it. It's just a bump."

I look up, but Pip and I are pretty close, so I feel a little uncomfortable.

But it's kind of nice, because he doesn't flinch away and look around awkwardly like Kenny would have or shove me away and call me a fag like Eric would have. Pip just sits there and stares at me and smiles. He's got an awfully nice smile.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he says, and I just nod dumbly. "I didn't expect anyone to be here."

"Me either," I say, because I sure didn't. No one really comes to this park because there's a bigger, better one down the street, so this one is falling apart and is awfully dirty. But I like it, because there's no one here. Pip just smiles more and helps me up.

He asks me to swing with him.

I don't remember if I answered, but I must have, because we're on the swings, and he's laughing, and I swear, he looks just like one of those Saints that Mama is always telling me about.

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Craig Tucker_

_Location: Bigger Better Park Down the Street  
_

"Th-they've got to be here somewhere."

"Yeah," I reply. I don't have the heart to tell the kid that we won't be able to follow gnome tracks in mulch. This kid is so fucking into this search that I just can't do it. I can't break his little heart.

"Gnomes," Tweek says, as if an expert on this. He probably is. He's out of his fucking mind. "are prone to l-leave some kind of tracks behind."

"Really," I say. He nods, but twitches halfway through, so his head kind of just vibrates around in a full circle. We're at the park and surrounded by a bunch of fucking kids who keep running into my legs.

Tweek looks alarmed when one of them runs into his back at full speed, knocking him clear over into my arms. He's shaking like a leaf in the wind in my embrace, but I fuckin' love it. He's shaking my entire structure. My ribcage is vibrating in my chest. My spine is doing the worm.

But then, and I have no clue why, Tweek stops tweeking. He just goes still, right there in my arms.

My pulse has probably sky-rocketed, because holy fuck, I think he might have died! Tweek _never_ stops twitching. Not even when he sleeps. He's slept over a lot, and we always share a bed because only fags are scared of looking gay by sharing a bed. And he shakes all night long, I swear to God. It was really goddamn annoying at first, but it grows on you. I promise.

I don't know what the fuck to do. I've got a dead body in my arms. Or at least, that's what I think up until I notice that he is moving. He's breathing. Lightly, but he's breathing.

I'm so baffled, I don't know what to do. This is so out of this world. So I do what my body wants me to do, which is apparently to bury my face in Tweek's hair (which smells an awful lot like coffee and is kind of sticky and frizzled and rough).

We must have stood there for a good two minutes, before Tweek starts shaking again. He starts shaking worse than ever, and he cries out, "Jesus Christ! It's so much pressure!" and pulls away. He's looking at me with wide, confused eyes, and his head keeps tweeking to the side. I don't know how to answer his silent inquiry, so I don't. I just stare back flatly.

His eyes start to dart around everywhere, and he tugs at his shirt, and then he pauses. He keeps shaking, but his eyes pause upon the ground to his right. He spins and falls to his knees and crawls over so fucking fast I would think he was a racing dog had he not clearly been a psychotic human being.

"HERE," he cries out, pointing to the floor. He looks over his shoulder at me, motioning me over desperately. "HERE."

I have no fucking clue what he's talking about, even when I get there. All I see is a brown glob in the midst of a bunch of mulch. And the brown glob isn't very appealing.

"Looks like shit," I say intelligently.

"IT IS," he replies in a slightly exasperated voice. He gets off all fours and just sits on his knees, grabbing the collar of my shirt so he could pull me closer. Our faces are really close again. I like it. I really fucking like it.

He searches my eyes and shakes and then finally whispers, "It's gnome poop."

What did I say?

Out of his fucking mind.

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Stanley Marsh_

_Location: Marsh family kitchen_

Kyle is on his way over, and I'm going to do it.

I'm going to tell him how I feel.

Don't get me wrong, dude. I'm so nervous, I'm going to puke. This, this whole me telling him I've got a boner for him thing, could ruin it. It could ruin _everything_.

Kyle and I have been best friends from the cradle. We've been inseparable, two peas in a pod and all that shit. We've never left each others side, except for that one time that Guitar Hero tore us apart. That was the only time I even came close to telling him how I feel. You would think a guy telling another guy "I need you" would give some kind of hint, but Kyle didn't say a thing about it. He just smiled and took my outstretched hand and followed me out to whatever adventures awaited us next.

It's always been that way.

But this could ruin it.

I can't hold it in anymore though, dude. It's all I think about, night and day. I think Kyle's starting to notice anyway. I might as well be a man and tell him, right? Think about it this way, Marsh. He's been through everything with you. He won't leave you over something as trivial as a crush...right?

There's a knock on the door that makes my stomach nearly fall out of my butt. My mother answers it and I hear her tell Kyle I'm in the kitchen. I hear his foosteps heading right for me. I feel like I'm in Jaws, because this suspense is killing me. But Kyle is so unlike Jaws when he enters the room. He just waves at me and smiles and heads to the fridge to grab himself some water. He's acting completely normal.

My body moves itself, I swear, because I would never have the balls to do what I'm about to do. I stride across the room in a good 3 steps and grab Kyle and shove him against the wall. He drops his water with a "what the hell, Stan?!" and glares at me, clearly annoyed.

What a temperamental little Jew.

"Listen, Kyle," I say with authority I didn't know I had. Kyle is pretty surprised too, and he looks scared, like he did something wrong. I slap myself mentally, because hell, I don't want to scare him! I loosen my grip on his arms and soften my gaze, which apparently had been a really pissed off glare. "Listen, Kyle." I don't know why I repeated it, because I'm pretty damn sure he's listening.

"I like you. A lot. Not in the best friend. But in the crush way, you know, the-way-I-used-to-like-Wendy-way."

And then I immediately let go of him and dash upstairs. I'm actually a total pansy, in case you haven't noticed. I reach my room, slam my door shut and dive for the covers. I'm such a fucking girl. I can hear footsteps coming up the stairs. I can hear the doorknob turning. I can hear Kyle breathing as he sits down on my bed. I can hear Kyle...laughing?

I sit up and glare at him indignantly. I just poured my heart out to him, and he's fucking _laughing_ at me? What a raging dick!

"You're an asshole, Broflovski!" I state as he starts laughing even harder. I just glare at him. I honestly don't know what else to do. What would _you_ do in this kind of situation, dude? I mean, there isn't really anything _to_ do.

"Stan," he makes out in between chuckles. "StanStanStan." And then he abruptly stops laughing, but the smile doesn't leave his face as he reaches over and put a hand on my cheek. I unconsciously lean into the touch. Kyle's hands are always a little cold, but that's because along with all of his other bad traits- his pale skin, his day-walker-ness, his Jew nose- Kyle has bad circulation.

"I like you too," he says, and my stomach almost falls out of my butt again. It's seriously got to stop that. It's kind of alarming, dude. "Don't make such a big deal out of it, okay?"

I gape like a fish. I can't make a sound, honestly, I can't.

"It's no big deal. I mean, we've liked each other for forever, haven't we? Don't make it a big deal, Jesus, _please_ don't make it a big deal."

"Yeah, sure," I finally say. "Whatever you want."

* * *

**A/N: Kenny is by far my favorite to write for. And Butters is by far my least. And I totally forgot to do the whole Cartman/Craig friendship, but whatever, I don't care, suck my dick. Also, I promisepromisepromise that Butters/Pip is NOT permanent. THIS WILL BE KENNY/BUTTERS IF IT'S THE LAST THING I DO.**

**Also, if you have any ideas you think would be interesting for me to incorporate, please let me know! I always love suggestions.**

**And thank you guys for your reviews. I seriously love you. A lot.**

**But yeah, lemme know what you think?**

**Next time: Craig and Cartman's friendship actually starts, Stan tries to PDA it up, Kenny tries out some of his newly learned opposite-of-whore-moves, Butters and Pip start some suspicious activity, Tweek gets inspiration from a certain famous detective.**


	3. It's All A Dream!

**Disclaimer: It ain't mine, babydoll.**

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* * *

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_Subject: Mr. Craig Tucker_

_Location: Bigger Better Park_

I'm pissed off. I'm really, really pissed off. I'm sitting on the bottom of the slide at the bigger park, and there are little kids yelling at me to move so they can slide down, and there are parents yelling at me so the kids will stop yelling at me, and there's my more reasonable side yelling at me so that both the parents and the kids will stop yelling at me. My reasonable side is kind of irrational. It's currently worrying that one of these soccer moms is going to go batshit and kick my ass so their little Johnny can go down the goddamn slide. But I know it's just being unreasonable.

I'm pissed off because Tweek is grounded. His parents found him pushing some kid over, because that kid was standing on top of some gnome shit that Tweek was trying to examine. They, Tweek's parents, that is, also saw _me_ there, watching him shriek at the little nugget of a child. Tweek's parents fucking hate me. It might be because I constantly flick them off, but I'm not really sure on that one.

Who am I kidding? That' totally why they fucking hate me. They think I'm one hell of a bad influence on Tweekers.

The moment they saw me, man, did they freak the fuck out. Mr. Tweak picked Tweek right up off his feet and started lecturing him about how he shouldn't hang out with that no good Tucker child. His mother started to cry and send me nasty glares. I flipped her off. And then, they were gone in a flurry of panicked cries from Tweek and tears of disappointment from Mrs. Tweak.

A bunch of crazies, I tell ya.

So I'm alone. I'm alone sitting on a fucking slide and I feel like such a goddamn loner.

I can see Stan Fucking Douchebag Marsh sitting across the park with Kyle Fucking Smart Ass Broflovski. They're sitting on a bench, and Marsh looks like he's trying to hold Broflovski's hand, but the Jew ain't having none of that. Broflovski keeps pulling his hand away, scratching his stomach, and whispering something in an angrily at Marsh, who shrugs like a dumbass and wraps his arm around the other's shoulders. Broflovski yells something, stands up, and walks away angrily. Marsh looks crushed, and I laugh. What a girl.

"What the hell is so funny?"

If I were a more jumpy person- fuck that. If I were a more expressive- emotional, responsive, I don't know, _alive_- person, then I'd have jumped right out of my fucking skin. I hate it when people sneak up on me.

I spin around, my middle finger brandished, to find Eric Fucking Fatass Cartman standing there, his chubby little arms crossing his chubby big ol' chest.

He looks unimpressed at my "fuck you" finger and plops himself down in the sand next to me. "What the hell were you laughing at?"

I don't know why he would give a fuck, is what I think. "I don't know why you would give a fuck," is what I say.

Fatass shrugs and follows my eyes, which are flicking back to where Marsh continues to sit dejectedly on the bench. "_Oooh_," the chubzilla says, rubbing his chin and looking at me. He looks back at Marsh and back at me and back at Marsh, and I start to get dizzy, so I kick him. Right in the fucking shin.

"Hey, dickface! What the fuck did you do that for?" He looks as pissed as Tweek's dad. Except his voice isn't really intimidating like Mr. Tweak's- it's high and whiny and it reminds me of the little fuckers that are still yelling at me from the top of the slide.

I shrug. He rubs his shin, muttering profanities before spitting out, "Just because you've got an embarrassingly small boner for Stan doesn't mean you can kick innocent bystanders in the shins, asshole."

I swear, I choke on my own fucking spit. My eyes fly to Marsh, who has gotten up from the bench with a look of determination on his face and has started to sprint after Broflovski, who is just a little stick in the distance by now. I look back at Cartman, who has a completely serious look on his face, and I do it again. I laugh. I've been laughing a whole fucking lot lately, which is weird for me. I don't usually find things funny. But lately things have been fucking hi-larious.

"M-Marsh?" I make out, gasping for breath. This is a fucking hoot! "That little fagzilla?"

Cartman shrugs and says, "I don't know, Craig. You tell me."

"No, no, no," I say. "You are mistaken, fatass. ("Ey! Fuck you!") You see, I like Tweek. _Tweek_. You know, the twitchy little fucker with the coffee addiction?"

Cartman looks at me with a surprised look on his face, probably because he didn't see that coming, before he laughs. And laughs. And laughs some more. And it starts to get annoying, so I kick him in the shin again. He doesn't find that very funny, because then he's on his feet, he's in a rage, he's on _me_, and we're on the ground. He's got my neck in his chubby little fist, and I think I should be scared- even if just a little bit- but I'm not. I'm actually a little turned on, to tell you the truth.

"Listen here, you fucker," he says between clenched teeth. "Kick me again and I'll kick you in the teeth."

I lift an arm and flip him off. He glares at me, and I stare back, and we stay like that, and for a while. He keeps looking at me, but he's not glaring anymore. He's kind of just staring, like me. My eyes are starting to sting because I have yet to blink. But then he blinks first and gets off me. He holds out a hand to help me up. I take it.

"I like you," he says. "You've got balls."

I shrug.

Another fucking crazy.

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Stanley Marsh_

_Location: Main Street_

I want to cry. I really do, dude, but I'd look like a fag if I started crying right now. I'm running down Main Street, looking for a ball of red hair, which would be Kyle. God, what hair that guy's got. I love it. It's soft and bouncy and smells like soap. Kyle doesn't use any fancy shampoos and doesn't drown himself in colognes. He always just smells like Kyle. I love that, too.

At the park. Well, that's quite a subject. See, after I tried to hold his hand- because that's what boyfriends do, amirite?- Kyle kind of freaked out. He pulled his hand back and put it between his knees with his other one, and he tried to look like he was being casual and shit. We sat there for a second, and Kyle started scratching his stomach. So I grabbed his hand again. But then he got kind of pissed, because he turned on me, told me to quit trying to hold his hand, and put it back between his knees. Another few seconds passed, and he started scratching his stomach again. So I put my arm around him, since that didn't classify as holding his hand. And he flipped a shit, dude. He told me to cut it out, god Stan, chill out, I'm going home.

It hurt. I mean, I'm glad he didn't reject my feelings and everything when I told him how I felt the other day, but he sure is acting like he did. It's making my eyes sting. It hurts to swallow. My chest is constricting itself and it hurts to breath. I thought I was going to cry, right there in front of everyone, because it felt like Kyle had punched me in the face and told me he never wanted to see me again. I thought he might as well have. But then I thought, dude, Stan, you're overreacting. Kyle didn't do any of those things. He just pulled his hand away and scratched his tummy. And don't forget Stan, you have a tendency to over-exaggerate. You're sensitive. Embarrassingly so, in fact. It's just your imagination.

So I got up. I got up and damn, I ran like I've never run before. I was catching up to Kyle, but the kid has longer legs than me, so he was a pretty far away. And he started to blend into the crowd once we reached Main Street.

I'm looking around everywhere, because I know what to do. I know what to say. Too bad I can't find him.

I stop running, because woah. My lungs are screaming and my head is starting to pound and a wave of dizziness comes over me and I feel like I'm going to pass out. I start gasping for breath, because fuck, I have asthma. How the hell could I forget something like that? I'm not made for running after fleeing boyfriends. I immediately sit down right where I stand and drop my head into my hands, trying to control myself. People are walking by me, either ignoring me or telling me to get the fuck out of their way. I can't be bothered enough to flip them off.

One hand flies to my chest and I'm freaking the fuck out, man. Things are going fuzzy when I feel a hand on my back. There's another hand on my chin, lifting my head up and shoving something into my mouth. My inhaler. I take a deep breath and exhale a sigh of relief, because my lungs stop trying to strangle themselves.

I sit there for a couple minutes, breathing in deeply, shaking my head to clear my vision. The stranger stays with me, patting my back soothingly. "It's all right, man," they say, and my brain takes a few seconds to register that it's familiar. Very very familiar.

"Kyle!" I spin around on him, knocking him back onto his ass from where he'd been crouching.

He lets out a yelp and glares at me as he rubs his ass, "Yeah, you're welcome. Asshole."

I laugh, because I'm so goddamn happy to see him. He looks at me, bewildered, because I throw myself forward and latch onto his neck. He goes rigid and awkwardly pats my back as if to say "yeahyeah, now get the fuck off." I get the point and pull away, still gripping his shoulders and smiling like a dumbass in his face.

"...Are you okay, Stan?"

"Yeah, I'm great. I'm just happy to see you," I say. "And I'm sorry. I don't know what I did to upset you, but I'm so sorry, Kyle."

Kyle sighs and runs a hand through his curls. His beautiful, red curls. "Don't be sorry, Stan. You didn't do anything wrong. I just...I just don't do PDA. It makes me really uncomfortable."

I nod and then nod some more, because I don't know what to say. So I say, "I'm sorry," again. He shakes his head and puts a hand on the side of my face.

"Stop saying you're sorry. Just...just keep the PDA to a minimum, okay?" I nod again, and Kyle smiles softly, but the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. His hand is gone from my face and is scratching his stomach again.

I raise an eyebrow as I stare at it. "Kyle, dude, are you okay? You've been scratching your stomach a lot. You look like my Uncle Jimbo when he's watching T.V. and drinking beer"

Kyle immediately reddens, his face turning as red as his hair. "It's nothing," he mumbles. "Just shut up. Let's go to the movies."

And like the love-sick dumbass I am, I say yeah sure, whatever he wants. He smiles that sad smile again and rubs his stomach and gets to his feet. That smile strikes me with a pang of sadness, and I watch him as he holds a hand out to me, to help me up. He's looking at the ground beside me instead of at me. It makes me even more depressed.

There's something wrong here. There's something wrong with Kyle. And I'm going to find out what.

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Kenneth McCormick_

_Location: The alleyway by the grocery store._

I've been told that I have an addictive personality. It all started in fourth grade when I got addicted to cat piss. Now, before you judge me, let me just tell you that the high took me to fucking boob-topia. Do you not remember what I told you earlier? I was in-fucking-sane for boobs back then. Once my friends got me off of that- God bless them- I started smoking cigarettes. It's something that Butters can't stand- so I always cut down when I'm around him. Hell, I'd quit cold turkey for the kid. I'd chop off my pinky finger for him. Maybe.

But then I became addicted to sex. I know you may be going, this guy is crazy. There are no narcotics in sex. But let me tell you, orgasms are narcotics to me. They're my cat piss. They take me to boob-topia, to penis-world, to ass-cove, all around every place I could ever imagine, and back again. You could say I'm a nymphomaniac and I wouldn't argue with you. I started sleeping with everyone and anyone who was willing to sleep with me. Which turns out to be quite a lot of people, actually. Apparently I'm very sexy.

But Butters, Butters respects women. Butters respects everyone. He's lectured me several times about how I shouldn't have sex with just anyone, because sex is something special. You should do it only with the person you love, because if you do it with everyone, it doesn't mean anything. If you do it with someone you love after you've done it with dozens of others, then it's meaningless. It's empty. I guess that's what I am, then. But I don't want Butters to see me that way. I don't want him to see me as empty. God Almighty, that's the last thing I want.

So I'm quitting. I'm quitting for him, because he's worth it. But I ain't saying it's going to be easy. Especially since Thomas, that kid with Tourettes Syndrome, is walking by right this very second.

Thomas is one weird kid. He's like Tweek to a less twitchy and nervous, and a more mentally sound and profane extent. I know he can't help it, but when he swears, I can't help but think he's cool. I know Craig Tucker used to go apeshit for Thomas' swearing, and I don't blame him. Thomas honestly sounds like the coolest person in the entire world when he twitches and yells, "Cock!"

What really kills me about him is his hair. His blond hair that's just like Butters' hair, just a shade darker. It's really nice and fluffy and I want to touch it. So what I do is, I call Thomas over. His head snaps in my direction and he stares at me for a second, basically sneezing out "Bitch slut!" before cautiously coming towards me. I grin at him and once he's close enough, I reach out and ruffle his hair.

He stares at me like I'm crazy. "What do you want?" he asks, jerking his head away from me. "Ass cunt!" I laugh and lean back against the wall, and I give him the ol' once-over. He's cute in a scrawny, neurotic kind of way. He's asking me what I want again, and before I can stop myself, I answer by grabbing his hair, jerking him forward, and showing him exactly what I want- which I do by shoving my tongue down his throat. It's an impulse, really. An impulsive reaction to his general cuteness. A bad, destructive impulse, but what can I do?

He squeaks, coughs out what I think is "Cock!" and I grin against his mouth in response. His hands scrabble at my shoulders, probably trying to get away, but I'm a very persuasive man. My tongue is a very, very good negotiator. He stops squirming when I do a cool swirly thing with my tongue, and he stands there, passive for a moment, before he responds with vigor.

It's then that the sound of glass breaking makes me pull back quickly and look at the entrance of the alleyway.

Fuck.

My.

Life.

There stands Butters, with a bag of groceries laying broken at his feet. Apple juice puddles around the soles of his shoes, pouring out from the carton kiddie boxes it comes in, a brand I know Butters loves. He's staring at me with surprised, wide eyes, and his eyes keep flickering to where Thomas stands, equally shocked. We're all quiet, because there are a million things I want to say to Butters, but not one of them seem sufficient.

The silence is broken when Thomas yells, "Fuck shit!" and tears out of the alleyway, his face aflame with embarrassment. Butters opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and then snaps it shut resolutely. He glares at me, flips me off and turns on his heel, walking away while I stand there, watching my love life walk away from me. Again.

Goddammit.

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Leopold "Butters" Stotch_

_Location: Little Park by Tom's Rhinoplasty_

Golly, am I upset. I'm so upset, I want to hit something. So I do. I punch the plastic slide, a dull thud rendering the plastic unscratched and my knuckles throbbing. I bite my lip, because gee, it hurts! I sit down on the mulch, pulling my knees to my chest and burying my face in my arms. I don't know why I'm so upset. I mean, sure, I've seen Kenny making out with people before. I've even walked in on him doing nasty things to Clyde before. And it's never made me this upset.

But this time, there was something different. When him and Thomas were standing there, I got real jealous. All I could think what that it shoulda been me there, not Thomas. And golly, did I get angry. Kenny's face when he saw me nearly broke my heart, but all I could concentrate on right then was restraining myself from punching Thomas right in the face.

What's wrong with me? Kenny's my friend, and now he thinks I hate him. He probably hates _me_. This makes me cry harder, because if there's one person I can't stand hating me, it's Kenny. He may have his downfalls, but he's a real swell guy and I miss being near him.

I hear someone coming towards and I recoil when a hand lands on my arm. "Go away," I mumble, but the person does the opposite by sitting down next to me.

"I can't leave when my friend is upset," says the person, and I register that it's Pip. I look up slowly and his face has this expression that's completely devastated when he sees me. "Oh, Butters," he says sadly, and he uses his thumbs to wipe away the tears. "What in heaven's name is wrong?"

"K-Kenny," I choke out, but I can't go on. I can't tell Pip. It doesn't seem appropriate to tell him about Kenny. He seems to understand, though, because instead of pressing the issue, he takes my face in both hands, and I shiver because, gee, his hands are warm and it's nice. He puts his forehead against mine and then his lips are softly on mine. He pulls away and smiles gently and says, "I'm sorry about Kenny."

I can't say anything, because that was my first kiss. Ever. All I can think is that if my dad finds out my first kiss was with a non-American male, I'll be grounded for the rest of my life.

Pip let's go of my face and gets up, offering a hand down to me. "Care for a swing, chap?"

I'm still mute, but I take his hand, because you know what? Blast my dad. Blast Kenny and blast Thomas. Pip just kissed me, and I think it's kinda nice to be the Thomas sometimes.

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Craig Thomas_

_Location: The Tweak household._

This is probably a very, very bad idea. After I left the park and Cartman- after having made plans for him to come over the next day because...I don't even know why I did that- I made my way to Tweek's house, because hell, I miss the kid. It's only been a day, but damn, I feel like I've lost an arm or something. I think I'll crawl into his window or something, because I really fucking miss him.

I'm outside of his window, right by the conveniently place tree next to it. It looks like a pain in the ass to climb, but I'll do it for Tweek. I rub my hands together and grab the first branch, heaving myself up with tremendous effort. Fuck, man, I need to go to the gym. My arms are like goddamn noodles. It takes me a good fifteen minutes to reach the branch that reaches out towards Tweek's window, and by that time there are twigs in my hair and bark in my eyes.

I fucking hate nature.

I'm inches away from his window sill, my fingers scrabbling stupidly for the edge, when a voice comes up from below. And when I say 'comes up from below', I mean 'shrieks out of the depths of hell' because it's loud and terrified like someone getting raped by Satan.

"GAH! W-What the hell are you doing?!"

I seize in surprise and lose my balance, tumbling straight off the fucking branch. I hit the one directly below it, feeling my lip split open from the impact, but before I can fall any farther, I grab onto that bitch of a twig as tightly as I can. But as I said before, my arms are goddamn noodles. So my grip begins to slip, and I can hear Tweek freaking the fuck out below me. Shit. If the kid doesn't move, I'm going to fall right on him.

Which is exactly what I do. I'm hitting brambles and branches and I probably have a good dozen cuts on my skin and clothes before I make full on body impact with Tweek, who apparently had his arms out in an attempt to catch me. My head cracks against the grass- and I really don't think it's supposed to make that sound- and I hear all the air in Tweek's twitching little body flee from his lungs as I hit him. He cries out in pain, and I do the best I can to drag myself off of him before I crush him to death. Every muscle and joint in my body is spazzing like Tweek on his bad days but I manage to get off the little guy and land roughly on the ground beside him.

"O-Ouch," he makes out weakly, once his breath decides to come waltzing back.

"Ouch is fucking right," I reply weakly, sitting up despite my body begging me to lay the fuck back down. "What the hell were you doing, standing right under me?"

"Try-trying to catch you. Gah!"

I don't have anything to say to that, because my heart gets all giggly and flutters in my chest. I'm such a fucking girl, but can you blame me? That's really damn sweet of him. So I just sit there and let my body figure out what the hell is going on. Tweek speaks before I do.

"Why were you trying to g-get in my window?"

"Because I missed you," I reply. He starts shaking worse than ever when I say that, and it's worrying me, so I decide to change the subject. "What were you doing outside of your window? I thought you were grounded."

"I was," he replies, sitting up and shaking his head to get the leaves out of his hair. "B-but my parents- Jesus!- let me go once I promised not to hang out wi-with you."

"Oh," I say.

"I'm not going to l-listen to them."

"Oh," I say again. I'm a fucking genius when it comes conversation, ain't I?

"B-besides," Tweek says, getting to his feet and brushing off his poorly buttoned shirt. "I-I want you to come to the costume store with- GAH!- me."

"To get what?"

"Sherlock Holmes and Watson c-costumes," he says, and I laugh. Again.

"You're kidding, right?"

He's looking at me completely serious. "No."

I laugh again and get up, ignoring my body's protests. I put a hand out, which he takes hesitantly. "Sure," I say. I'll look like a fucking idiot for this kid any day.

* * *

**A/N: Uhmuhm, lemme know what you think. I was really distracted when I wrote this. My mom is batshit for the Olympics and is yelling loudly downstairs.**

**Next time: Kenny goes to Kyle for ideas on how to compensate for his mistake, Cartman gets good blackmail material, Stan and Kyle have an awkward encounter with Butters, Craig and Tweek go detective-ing Holmes style.**


	4. It's Earthquake EXPLOSION!

**HEY GUYS, LOOK AT THIS:**

.com/art/Fanart-Ch-3-It-s-All-A-Dream-154243484

**The fact that Risashootingstar made me a fanart makes me sooooooo fucking happy that I might explode. APPRECIATE IT.**

**Also, yay chapter!:**

**

* * *

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_Subject: Mr. Kenneth McCormick_

_Location: The Smaller Park by Tom's Rhinoplasty_

I hate waiting for people. It's like the waiting at someone's door thing, except this is a general rule and is enacted anywhere. I'm at the little shitty park by Tom's Rhinoplasty, patiently waiting for Mr. Broflovski to show his red little head. I asked him to meet me here a good hour and a half ago. What the hell could be taking him this long?

This park really creeps me out. It's day time and I can see that weird British kid Pip sitting at the swings not far away, but I'm still creeped out. There's something about the sheer low-quality of this park that gives me the shivers. I shouldn't be talking about low-quality anything since I am, you know, poor. But I can hear that swing Pip is on creak from over here and the wind blowing through the tunnels is making a creepy whistling noise. I swear to God I can hear rustling in the bushes near by. Kyle better hurry the fuck up.

And in true 'speak of the devil' fashion, Kyle apparates from around the corner, his hands shoved in his jacket pockets and he blows a curl out of his eye. My heart slows down the panicked jittery thing it's doing. Kyle is here. It's not like he can protect me or anything- since he's all scrawny and feminine and stuff, ya know?- but it's reassuring to see someone more familiar than that weird foreign kid.

Kyle looks happy when he gets to me. He's not smiling or anything- he's actually frowning because he's tugging at that same red curl and tucking it into his hat since it refused to stop stabbing him in the eye- but he's got this glow. Like he's just really, really happy. When he stops glaring at his hair and looks at me, his eyes are so fucking bright and joyful that my heart skips a beat.

"What the hell is up with you?" I ask tactlessly, shifting awkwardly on the tabletop I'm perched on.

Kyle raises and eyebrow and gives me that skeptical look that he tends to give people and figures that that's all he needs to do to say whatthefuckareyoutalkingabout.

"You look...different," I explain, gesturing vaguely at his person. He just smiles, all good-nature like, at me and shrugs, heaving himself onto the table next to me. Our thighs are pressed together, which is kind of gay. But I'm okay with gay. Especially if it's with this new glowy Kyle. The glowy-ness is really intriguing. I want to know what it is.

"So," he says removing his hands from his pockets to put them between his knees. "What'd you call me here for? You said you needed to talk to me about something."

I'm lost in his really happy eyes that are staring at me for a second. And then, I feel the compulsion. You know the one I'm talking about? It's the impulse I felt when I wanted to touch Thomas' hair. When I wanted to kiss Thomas. When I wanted to fuck Thomas- Craig, Heidi, Clyde, Token, Bebe, Rebbecca, Stan, Wendy- on the spot. And my heart seizes up, because dammit, this is bad.

Kyle shifts uncomfortably, presumably at my hungry stare, and he clears his throat awkwardly. I shake my head, pushing the thoughts away. Nononono_no_. You are here to talk about Butters, McCormick. Don't you fuck this up. I clear my throat in much the way Kyle did a few seconds ago. "I wanted to talk about Butters," I say, and Kyle looks relieved that I've stopped staring at him like a piece of meat and we've taken a step back onto familiar territory.

"What about him?"

"Well," I say. "He caught me...see, I was...the way it went-"

"Just tell me who you were caught boning, dumbass." Damn you, Broflovski, and your excellent perceptive nature!

"He saw me kissing Thomas."

Kyle sighs heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose, a habit that I think he's gotten from Stan via osmosis. "Kenny, I thought you were supposed to stop, you know, being a man-whore."

"I tried!" I say desperately, grabbing his shoulders and trying to make him understand. Kyle looks startled and tells me to cut it out, but I can't. Not this time. He needs to _understand_. "I really tried to, Kyle, I really did. But it's like. It's like a drug. I can't help it. If I want to kiss someone, I do it. I can't stop myself!"

"Yes," he says grabbing my wrists to stop my shaking, "you can. If you really care about Butters, you can."

My lungs feel like they're being crushed, because I want to cry. I sit down on the bench connected to the table and stare up at Kyle. He needs to tell me what to do, because goddammit, I have no fucking clue what I'm doing. "I can't do this." Cue burying-face-in-hands angst.

Kyle slids off the table top and grabs my hands, prying them away from my face. He's got this real concerned look on his face, and it just kills me. "Yes you can, Ken. You can do anything."

Jesus, ain't he off-center with that! The ridiculous-ness of his comment strikes me as funny, because it's so fucking wrong. So I laugh. I start laughing and laughing, and Kyle is looking at me like I'm crazy, but hell, it's killing me! I double over and my abs start to complain and hurt. And I can't stop laughing for a good five minutes. The giggling session ends with me slapping my knee and wiping away the tears that had gathered at the corners of my eye. Hahaha. Me. Do anything. Hahahahahah. It's still funny!

Kyle's glaring at my residing chuckles, and then he doesn't something really unexpected. He grabs my face in both his hands, jerks it towards him and looks at me with this piercing gaze that's so serious that I immediately sober up. "Shut the fuck up. Don't you dare laugh at that."

"Ky, Ky," I say, a grin lighting up my face once again. "You forget who you're talking about."

"No," he says stubbornly. "I'm talking about Kenneth McCormick, who likes sex and bean sprouts because they look like sperm and pecan ic-ecream and every movie Dwayne Johnson has ever made. Who hates onions and chick flicks and autumn because all the leaves fall off the trees. I'm telling you that that very Kenneth McCormick can do _anything_, so don't you dare laugh at that, you asshole."

And never have I wanted to kiss anyone as much as I do right now. So I do the dumbest thing in the entire world. I take Kyle's face in my hands, so we're like cute little twinsies in our positions, and I pull his face towards mine and I plant a big one, right on his lips. He goes completely rigid against me and I stupidly try to use the whole coaxing trick I did on Thomas. But instead of responding in vigor like Thomas, Kyle pulls his hands away from my face, balls one hand into a fist and aims it right for my jaw.

The impact brings tears to my eyes and sends me flying back, right off the bench, to lie pathetically on my back in the mulch. Kyle is standing up and wiping at his lips with the back of his sleeve, before he adjusts his hat and glares down at me. And _damn_, is he pissed. All that glowy shit I told you about earlier? It's sooooo gone.

"What the _fuck_ was that?!"

And I honestly don't know how to answer him, because I honestly don't _know_ what that was. So I shrug, and Kyle spews off some really pissed-off-sounding foreign words- Hebrew?- and turns on his heel to walk away. Oh _shit_.

I dive forward and grab the hem of his pants, which makes him go all off balance, because we all know that Kyle has all the grace of an overweight man on ice-skates. He topples over face-down into the mulch and is immediately up, grabbing onto the collar of my shirt, his face aflame with fury.

"Kyle." I try to interject myself into the angry, onesided argument he's having with me, but he doesn't listen. He's ranting and raving, and _Je-sus_ he's pissed. When he gets mad, his face gets as red as his hair. It kills me, it really does.

Talking doesn't seem to be doing shit, so I try the whole touching thing again. I put my hand back on the side of his face, and he immediately goes quiet, slapping it away with anger.

"_Kyle_, listen to me, will ya?"

He sits there, glaring at me like if he stares hard enough, I'll explode. I really hope all that stuff Cartman says about Jews using black magic isn't true, because if it is, Kyle might actually be able to make my head explode.

I sigh and shift uncomfortably. How to explain? "I'm sorry. I-it's just that...well, nobody's ever, you know, said anything like that before. I...I'm so fucking stupid."

And I really am. I bury my face in my hands again because shit, I'm going to cry again. Real men don't cry!

I hear Kyle sigh and I feel a hand on my shoulder.

"It's fine, Kenny. But ever try that again and I'll rip your tongue out and shove it down your throat."

That's the Kyle I know.

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Craig Tucker_

_Location: The Thomas' household's backyard_

I can't believe I'm doing this. Remember how I said that I'd look like a fucking idiot for Tweek? Yeah, well, that was before I knew that I'd look like such a...well, such a fucking idiot.

I've got this bowler hat on, see? _A bowler hat_. It's small and round and is squeezing the hell out of my head because Tweek bought it a size too small and I didn't have the heart to tell him so. And I'm wearing this stuffy suit, with a pocket-watch attached and everything. I can't even sit down in it. And the worst thing is, I've got this mustache. I've got this ridiculously huge mustache resting on my upper lip, and it's bushy and itchy and makes me look at least 38 years older.

Yes, I'm dressed up as Dr. John Watson.

Tweek, on the other hand, looked pretty damn good as Sherlock Holmes. With his little plaid poncho and hat and magnifying glass. He looked real sharp. So I guess I was willing to put up with this stupid outfit when his cell phone started ringing. Turns out it was his parents, reminding him about some stupid doctor's appointment, and Tweek was out of my house in the next five minutes, leaving me standing in my backyard looking like a complete dumbass.

I groan and sit on the porch stairs, craning my neck back to glare up at the sky. Fuck you, God. You let Tweek get all cleaned up and then you take him away? Fuck. You.

Wait, I didn't mean that.

If there's one thing I don't want to piss off, it's the big guy upstairs. He could crush me like a fucking grape, you know? I may be the toughest kid in South Park, but I've got nothing on _God_.

"I'm sorry, God," I say sincerely, trying to take off my hat in a show of respect. In case that swayed him or anything, I guess. Problem is, the hat budges like a centimeter off my head, but then stops. It just stops, so I pull harder. And that's when it really starts to fucking hurt. I cry out and immediately let go, my fingers scrabbling at my temples, which feel bruised and hurt like a bitch. Oh _shit_. My hat. My stupid bowler hat. Is stuck on my head.

So the next ten minutes is spent likes this: Me tugging like hell at this stupid bowler hat while it tears at my scalp in return. Okay, okay. So I'm also crying like a baby. Shut up about it, will you?

This is fucking stupid. As I said before, I'm the toughest kid in South Park. I won't be beaten out by a fucking _hat_. So I grab the sides of it resolutely, ignoring my head's blaring protests at another attempt, and give a might tug that sends me sprawling forward onto the concrete of our patio. My head cracks against the stone and my arm is getting scratched up as hell, but all I can concentrate on is the fact that there's wind blowing the hair on the top of my head lightly. I blink dumbly and reach up my hands- one of which is bleeding. Lame.- to pat the top of my head. Sweaty hair meets their touch.

FUCK.

YES.

I.

WON.

Take that you stupid bowler hat! I start laughing in triumph, but then I get the shit scared out of me, because I realized someone is laughing with me. I immediately sit up, because hot damn, I think God is laughing at me! God, I think?, starts laughing harder than ever when I stop and start looking around.

"You think that's funny, you asshole?" I ask, shaking my fist up at the sky. The laughing gets louder, so I flip him off and say something I think I'll always regret. "Well, you know what's funny? The fact that your son got, you know, blown out like a candle. By the _Jews_. His own fucking people. Now _that _shit is hi-larious!"

There's a pause in the laughter, and I think, Hell yeah, I beat God in an argument! while simultaneously thinking, oh shit, I just beat God in an argument.

But then it rings out louder than ever, and Eric Cartman comes tumbling out of the tree by my fence and lands awkwardly on his hands and knees, laughing so hard that I think he starts crying. Oh fuck. He sure wasn't God.

"Oh-oh mah Gad," he breathes after a good five minutes of laughing. He sits up and wipes his eyes and grasps his fat ol' belly. "That was _priceless_."

"Fuck you, fatass," is my automatic response, sitting back on the steps and rubbing my freed temples. My arm keeps bleeding all over the place, so I make sure it doesn't get on my outfit, because Tweek would be really pissed off if I got it all dirtied with blood.

"'Ey!" Cartman says, standing up and walking over me, presumably to loom over me in a threatening manner, like he is now. I just keep my middle finger raised at him, and he bats it away and pushes me over so he can fit his fat ass onto the stair next to me.

"So Craig," he says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. I glare at the intrusion, and move my arm so I bleed over his pants. I don't think he notices though, because he starts rummaging through his jacket pocket, pulling out some piece of paper and holding it so the front of it is hidden from view. "Do you want to see what is only the funniest thing you'll ever see? Ever?"

I stare at him, because honestly, I don't care.

He seems to take my stare as a yes, because he gets really excited and starts breathing heavily, which is gross, and says, "Well then, feast your eyes!" And he turns the paper around for me. And what I see isn't a bunch of words, like I expected. It's a picture, actually. A picture of two very familiar people. Cartman starts laughing again when he sees my eyes widen, because woaaaah, dude.

It's Kenny Hobo McCormick and Kyle Fucking Smarty-pants Broflovski, sitting together in a park bench. They've each got the other's faces in their hands, and they're...kissing? And here I thought Marsh and Broflovski were gettin' it on.

But there's one thing of more concern to me. "Cartman," I say, abruptly interrupting his laughter. He turns at me, glee dancing in his eyes, waiting for my reaction. I think he wants me to laugh. But I've got something more important to ask. "Cartman," I repeat. "How did you get that picture?"

He stops smiling and raises and eyebrow. "Don't be such an asshole, Craig."

I frown, because damn, if I haven't heard that one before. I mean, remember Peru? What a dick. "Just tell me how you got the picture."

"What's it to you?"

I shrug, because really, it _isn't_ anything to me. I'm just curious. He stares at me for a second, before he finally says, "Well, I minding my own business, carrying my polaroid and hiding in the bushes while following Kyle. All that happened is, he went to the shitty little park by Tom's. And he and Kenneh were being really gay, so I took a picture of it for, you know, blackmail."

I stare at him skeptically. What a fucking creep.

He looks at me indignantly, as if he could read my thoughts. "I'm seriouslah, Craig! It's just for blackmail to get that Jewish asshole back for something."

"Yeah, okay," I say. Cartman mumbles something angrily and looks at the picture for a second, before shoving it back in his pocket. We sit there in silence, and every once in a while, Cartman will say, "I'm seriouslah, Craig. I'm seriouslah."

Liar.

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Stanley Marsh_

_Location: The movies_

Lately, Kyle has had this glow around him. He's been happy and talkative and unnaturally touchy. I mean, what happened to no PDA? It's not that I mind- because Kyle just walked up to me and boldly grabbed my hand which _certainly did not make me squee a little bit_- but it's very uncharacteristic of him. I think it might just be that he's getting used to this whole dating-another-guy thing. Throughout the time we've been doing out, I've been trying to coax him out of his little shell of prude by doing sappy stuff like stroking the back of his hand and playing with his hair and a bunch of other stuff that made all his muscles contract. His hand would fly to his stomach and start scratching, and damn, I still need to figure out what the hell is going on there.

But all in all, I'm a happy man.

We're off to the movies today. There's this movie out called Earthquake EXPLOSION! (Yes, it is actually punctuated as such. Shut up.) and it's got explosions and hot chicks and guns and it's just our kind of movie. It's literally about explosions. Coming out of the fissures of a recent earthquake. Can you say badass? In this case, you most certainly can. However, as badass as this movie sounds, I don't really plan on paying attention to it.

Whenever Kyle and I watch a movie together, I never watch the movie. I never have to. I just stare at Kyle's face from the corner of my eye, and I can tell what's going on. See, Kyle's a very expressive guy. When something funny happens, his face splits into a grin, showing all 32 pearly whites in his humor. When something scandalous happens, his jaw drops and his eyes widen and his head snaps to me as he mouths, "DID YOU SEE THAT?!" When something sad happens, his lip starts to tremble and his brows get worried and his eyes get glassy. I can tell he's trying not to cry. It's ridiculously endearing.

We get to the movies a good fifteen minutes before the movie starts, so it's smoothies for us while we wait. But as we stand there in line, right when I make sly move of wiping an imaginary nothing away from the corner of Kyle's mouth, a familiar voice rings out in greeting.

"W-well hey there, fellas."

Kyle's head snaps to the voice and my hand falls dejectedly to my side. Dammit, Butters! I want to punch him in the nervous little face, but then I remember, hey, Stan, aren't you supposed to be that friendly, good-natured guy? Oh yeah. Thanks for reminding me, me.

"Hey, Butters," I say with a wide grin, shoving my hands into my pockets. They scrabble against my thigh in disappointment. I shush them telepathically. "What's up?"

"Oh, well, I'm waitin' to see a movie is all," Butters replies, grinding his knuckles together and smiling up at me. I feign interest and ask what movie it is. Butters' face lightens up and he gets real excited, and he says, "It's an action movie! It's called Earthquake EXPLOSION! and it's about explosions. Coming out of the fissures of a recent earthquake." He looks proud of himself, and you know? I'm a little proud of the kid myself. When we used to go see action movies, Butters would usually pussy out and go watch the kiddies movie in the theater next door.

"Oh," Kyle says, "so are we."

Butters' smile widens and says, "Well then maybe the four of us could sit together or something! Wouldn't that just be swell?"

Kyle raises a brow and starts craning his head this way and that. "Four of us?" He says, leaning over to see around Butters' little self. He looks a little worried, actually. "Is Kenny here or something?"

Butters' smile evaporates in an instant, and for a second, I swear, an expression on par in evilness with Eric Cartman dances across Butters' face before it's gone and Butters smiles again. Fakely.

"No, no," he says. "I'm here with Pip."

"Who's Pip?" I say instinctively, and Kyle sighs and pats me on the shoulder.

Butters laughs and says, "You know, the British boy in our class, silly." And I'm kind of shocked, because that's one hell of a weird pair. I mean, Pip and Butters? Two of the most quiet, awkward kids in our school, on a date?

I shiver and grasp for Kyle's hand. He seems to understand and squeezes it reassuringly, before he mutters out an excuse to Butters, who smiles and waves goodbye to us happily. I think we pass by Pip as we leave the smoothie store, but Kyle just keeps pulling me away. We end up in the bathroom, and Kyle immediately starts looking under stalls for feet. Once he's sure it's empty, he bursts out laughing. He's got this laugh. It's clear and so genuine that I start laughing too, even though I don't know what's so funny.

Kyle leans heavily against my shoulder as he laughs and we slide to the ground and sit there until we catch our breath. My head lolls around on my neck until it rests upon his, which is on my shoulder. It's silent, but not in an uncomfortable way at all. Kyle's still convulsing with the occasional chuckle and when he finally calms down, he reaches up and wipes his eyes. I sigh in content and finally ask what was so damn funny.

Kyle giggles again and says, "It's just that...well, is everyone at our school gay?"

This is an excellent point. I mean, just look at us. I don't know how to respond to him, so I don't. I just shrug my shoulders, his head bobbing along with the motion. I glance down at my watch. Our movie apparently started ten minutes ago, but I don't really care. I sigh again and turn my head to stare at Kyle's curls. But instead of seeing red, I see green. At some point, he lifted his head and started staring at me. It's kind of disarming, but kind of nice. It's hard to get Kyle to look me in the eyes these days.

Our faces are really close. His nose is nearly bumping mine. If I hiccuped, they would collide. I want to look away because my eyes are burning, but fuck that, because Kyle is _looking_ at me. His breath is warm on my face. It smells like Fanta Orange. How long have we been here? Actually, scratch that. I don't care. Because Kyle decides to close the gap and presses his lips to mine, softly, hesitantly, like he's scared I'll pull away. Like he's scared I'll leave him.

I want to grab his face and bring it closer, to get more of that intoxicating contact, but I restrain. The last thing I want to do is pressure him, or freak him out. Baby steps, Marsh.

It feels like hours, but is only seconds, before Kyle pulls away. He's still looking in my eyes, but he looks worried, like he did something wrong. His hand is scratching his stomach again, but he doesn't break eye contact. He seems to be waiting for a reaction.

So I give him one. I smile, warmer and more genuinely than I have in a long time, and grab the wrist of the scratching hand. I lift the hand away from his stomach and press a light kiss to his pulse. He inhales sharply and closes his eyes and presses his wrist into the touch. I kiss it one last time before I let his hand drop onto his leg.

He opens his eyes again and looks at me again, and I swear, all I can see is glowing greengreengreen.

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Kenny McCormick_

_Location: The McCormick household_

It's the middle of the night when I hear knocking at my front door.

I'm awake.

I'm always awake.

No one answers it. Kevin is staying the night at a friend's house. Dad is out, God-knows-where. Mom is crying in the bathroom. And the knocking keeps going.

I sigh and roll off my bed, my feet thumping lightly on the concrete floor as I walk. My toes are numb because it's so damn cold, but my socks are filthy from wearing them for a month straight. I don't want to get my bed dirty by wearing them to sleep.

It's Kevin Stoley at the door. The moment I see him, I burst out laughing, because dude, he's dressed like a fucking Imperial Stormtrooper. It's fucking killing me. He looks offended at my laughing- well actually, I can't tell if he looks offended. His face is covered in a helmet. But the way he puts his hands on his hips and the way he sighs dramatically make me think that he's looks offended. He pulls his helmet off his head with a flourish and swishes his sweaty bangs out of his face as he groans, "Awh, c'mon Kenny, don't laugh. I'm serious!"

Naturally, that just makes me laugh harder. I feel kind of bad, because Stoley looks just crushed. He's glaring down at his shoes- they're boots, actually. Hahahaha.- and his lip starts trembling, like he's gonna cry or somethin'. This makes me panic. I _hate_ it when people cry. When the first tear rolls down his cheek, I immediately sober up and grab his chin.

"Hey now, hey now," I say. "What're these tears for, dude?"

"I-I was try-trying to impress you," Stoley sniffles out, rolling his helmet inbetween his hands.

"Uhm," I say brilliantly.

"I like you," he explains. "I like you a lot. And well...Cartman told me that dressing up like this would make you..."

I don't mean to push him or anything, but I'm curious, so I say, "Make me what?"

Stoley kicks shyly at the ground. "Make you want to have sex with me."

I sigh heavily and lean against the doorway. Jesus fucking Christ, Cartman. What a real class act. I'm actually tempted to take this kid up on the offer. I haven't had sex for a good four days now, actually. Especially not since the grocery incident with Thomas and B-

...

"Listen, Kevin," I hear myself saying. "You seem like a nice guy. You really do." I think Stoley can see the rejection coming, because he starts crying harder. "But there's this kid, ya see? He's a real swell kid. And I really like him."

Stoley starts crying even harder. "It's because I'm not good enough for you, isn't it?"

"Jesus Christ," I say, rubbing my forehead. I reach forward and put a hand under his chin and lifting his face up. I swipe away some tears. "Naw, kid. The thing is, I'm not good enough for _you_. I'm not good enough for that kid I like either. You both deserve better than this old bum."

Stoley looks at me skeptically and the tears keep coming. So I continue, "I'm a whore, Kevin. You don't want me, trust me. Right now...where I am right now, nobody should want me. I'm trying to fix myself, you see? I have to...well, I have to get better. I have to get better, you know?"

Stoley doesn't say anything. But he stops crying.

But I'm a roll now. "I have to get better for me. If I want to get anywhere, I have to get better. And you...you seem like a real swell kid too. You should go out and find someone who's already fixed. Because there is someone out there for you."

And then my brain stops working. I can't think of anything else to say. So I don't say anything. Stoley doesn't seem obliged to say anything either. We stand there for a while, before I sigh and rub my face and say, "Go home, kid."

Stoley actually listens. He turns, with his little helmet tucked away under his arm, and starts to walk away. But he stops, and half-turns his head and says, "You're not broken, Kenny. You're just fine."

And he was gone.

* * *

**A/N: Ta-dah?**

**Next Time: Craig and Cartman have a scuffle, Stan tries some tongue, Craig and Tweek go to the zoo, Kenny finds out some...interesting news.  
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	5. It's An American Tragedy!

**Hey guys, sorry this is late. I had a really hard time writing it, for some reason. Buuuut I got it out! Yay me! Thanks for all your lovely reviewsss~**

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* * *

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_Subject: Mr. Craig Tucker_

_Location: The Tucker household backyard_

I'm at my house and Cartman is with me. And Jesus Christ, is this fatass annoying.

He's currently talking about how I should help him trick all the hippies in the whole world into piling into a Volkswagen bus and then we would work together to push it off the edge of a cliff so it'll go toppling to the sharp, pointy rocks of death below.

Which would never work. I mean, there's no way that he and I could push a bus like that over an edge. Besides, where would be a sufficient cliff? Maybe we can use that cliff that all those Japanese people jumped off of during World War II. Cartman would know where that is. Because he's a fucking weirdo.

But there's something that's been continually bugging me since the day with the Bowler-Hat-Incident-of-Which-We-Do-Not-Speak.

I'm glancing over at Cartman, because this kid is seriously an enigma. Half the time he swears he hates my guts, but the other half is spent with me and him spending time together, him talking about God-knows-what and me sitting passively. I mean, I'm still having getting trouble over the whole Panama thing, but I'm also the kind of guy who keeps grudges very, very easily.

But I digress. There's one thing that really has been bothering me about this Cartman kid, and so I ask him exactly what's on my mind. "Cartman?"

He stops in mid-sentence and glares at me. "What."

"Can I ask you something?"

He sighs heavily and rubs his forehead. "Were you even listening to me, you asshole?"

I ignore him and take that for a yes. "Why did you tell me about Kyle and Kenny?"

Cartman looks incredulous for a moment, before saying, "Dude! Because it's fucking hilarious, that's why!" But I shake my head, because that, sir, is a dirty lie.

"No, that's not why."

Cartman glares at me, muttering, "Fuck you, it sure is why." and I'm really about to give it up, go inside, and call Tweek, because fuck it, if he's going to keep lying, why should I keep caring, right? But as soon as I get up, his chubby little hand shoots out and grabs my arm, pulling me harshly to the step. I glare at him, but he just looks back, face completely neutral.

"What." I say bluntly, and Cartman's brows furrow and he just keeps looking at me. So I'm patient, and stare right back.

See, I'm a pretty patient guy. I can wait for something forever, mostly because most of the time, I have nothing better to do. This is one of those times.

So it's not surprise to me that Cartman is the first to crack. His furrowed brows seem to manifest their worry all over his face, because his eyes get real wide and he draws his bottom lip between his teeth. And I'm kind of freaked out, because does Cartman look...helpless? Ho-ly fuck. This can_not_ be Eric Cartman.

But despite his worried visage, he won't say anything. He just keeps staring at me with those big, dumb eyes, his big, dumb hand still on my arm. I sigh heavily and say, "What, do you want me to guess?"

Cartman nods hastily, looking relieved. His hand slides off my arm. "You like someone," is the first thing I say, because I have a feeling I already know why he showed me that picture.

"Pf, fuck no," he says, his face arranging itself back into its usual scowl. He crosses his arms. He's lying. I allow myself to smile lightly, because he's so fucking obvious.

"Is it...Kenny?" I know it isn't McCormick, but I want to draw this out a little longer. I think Cartman retaliates when someone is right about something; I want to test this thesis. Woo, thesis. One-point word.

Cartman stops scowling long enough to stare at me, dumbfounded, before he doubles over laughing. I sit and wait patiently, but his laugh grinds on my nerves. It's really fucking high-pitched. He finally sits up and wipes at his eyes and gasps out, "Th-that poor piece of shit? Ha-ha, you have to be kidding me!"

I shrug. "All right, then. Stan?"

Cartman goes into the same laughing routine, giggling out something about pussy hippies and queers. He so far hasn't gotten angry. He isn't lying, not yet.

I try again. Wendy? Even more laughs than Stan. Bebe? He asks "Who the hell is Bebe?". Kyle? He outright gags and excuses himself to throw up and get a glass of Kool-Aid. When he gets back, I try one more time. He's been telling the truth this whole time, so I'm gonna take a shot in the dark.

I hope to hell this is right, because this game is getting old, and I really want to go meet Tweek.

"...Butters?"

Fuck yes, Bingo.

Cartman freezes like a deer in the headlights and he looks around in a panic. For a split second, that look of helplessness returns, before it immediately hardens into a vicious scowl. "That little pansy-ass fucker? What the hell are you on, Tucker?"

I outright grin at that. "So it's Butters, eh?" His face starts to get really red, and I shrug and stand up. "I mean, I guess I should have seen that coming. And now I understand why you showed me that picture. You're jealous of McCormick, aintcha?"

I know I'm pushing my luck, because his face is now getting purple. _Purple_. "And it made you really fucking happy that the white-trash was sticking his tongue down some throat that wasn't Butters'. That's...sweet."

Cartman looks about ready to explode. When I open my mouth to continue. he launches himself off that step faster than I've ever seen him move before, and he hits me like a wall of fucking bricks.

We thud to the ground in a flurry of arms and legs, and this kid keeps using his goddamn nails and claws at my face. I growl and kick him in the gut, but I guess his fat absorbs it because he doesn't seem to notice. He claws for my hair and is saying "Craig, you black asshole!" which would be funny if he weren't, you know, ripping apart my scalp. I take one of the hands that have been trying to shove him off, ball it into a fist, and punch him right in the nose. And that seems to do the trick. He gasps in surprise, falls sideways off of me, and grasps his nose.

"HOLY SHIT, I think you broke my nose!"

"No, I didn't," I reply. I think I did.

Cartman rolls on the floor with his hands over his nose. He pulls them away and searches them wildly for blood. They're blood-free.

"I-i...I think I'm bleeding!" he cries despite this fact. He shows his hands to me and pulls them away to pat at his nose again. He pulls them away, looks at them, prods his nose again. He continues this, as if in disbelief. I roll my eyes.

"You're not bleeding, fatass," I tell him, but he just keeps rubbing his nose.

"Oowwww. Goddammit, Craig, what'd you have to do that for, asshole?"

"Oh, I don't know," I say, getting up and brushing off my jeans. "Maybe it's because you were trying to scalp me."

"No, no, that's not it," Cartman replies, finally giving up on his search for nose-blood. "I think it's because you're just fucking insane."

"Maybe that's it," I say. "But at least I don't have a crush on Butters Stotch."

Cartman looks at me in disbelief, and I feel a little guilty. That might have been a little uncalled for. He gets up, doesn't bother to brush off his clothes, and leaves.

God, I'm such a dick.

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Stanley Marsh_

_Location: The Marsh Household_

Kyle and I have been doing this thing lately. It's this thing where we sit on a surface, any surface, and we sit all cross-legged across from each other. And Kyle will take my face in his hands, and he'll run his thumbs all over, swiping my eyebrows, outlining my nose, tracing my cheekbones. It's like he's cataloging my features, storing them away in his little computer of a brain.

He always gets this really concentrated look on his face when he does this. His brows furrow, his eyes squint the tiniest bit, his tongue sometimes peaks out at the corner of his mouth. It's adorable.

We're doing this today. His fingers are dancing along the bridge of my nose, running along the smooth skin under my eyes. Tracing the outline of my lips, straying into my hair. He grasps the locks lightly and pulls my face towards his. We kiss, softly. It's all been soft, light, feather-light since that first time in the bathroom. I don't want to push him beyond what he's comfortable with.

Kyle's like...well, for lack of a better analogy, Kyle's like an onion. He's got all these layers that you have to peel through, because the outer layers are callous and superficial and don't like to touch other people. But as you get rid of the layers, the smell gets stronger.

Now, onions don't smell good, but Kyle does. And I can smell him more and more because he's letting me closer and closer. He smells like...soap. Soap and whatever we last ate, but it's so real and not perfume and flowers like Wendy. I know I sound really, really corny, but what can I say? I'm crazy for this guy.

I feel a little emboldened by these thoughts, so I try something. Something daring.

I let my tongue swipe at his lower lip like it's wanted to do since...well, since forever. And just like I should have known he would, Kyle freezes up. He goes rigid, just like he used to, and immediately pulls away. He gets really red in the face. He stares at me with wide, horrified eyes, and he chokes out an apology before he's off like a shot.

God_dammit_, Marsh! What the hell is wrong with you?! I bury my face in my hands because I've gone and fucked up again! I know that Kyle is...delicate. He needs to be coaxed out. I can't just jump forward- he's the one who has to take the steps.

I've really fucked up big time. Shitshitshit. Ugh.

I stand up and pace around my room, my hand flying to run through my hair before resting again on my hip. Should I go after him? Should I leave well enough alone? No, no, no, I can't do choice B, because it's Kyle. But would he get pissed if I follow him? Probably. I mean, he likes to think he's independent. If he's pissed at you, he's _pissed_ at you. But I can't just let him go. That would be...stupid. What do I do?

Goddammit, goddammit, FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Craig Tucker_

_Location: The South Park Zoo_

After I stopped feeling like a total dick- okay, so I _still_ feel like a dick. Shut the fuck up- I went to find Tweek. Tweek Tweek Tweekers. We had made plans to meet at the Zoo, but I'm worried that Tweek is already there. Alone.

Think about it. Little, twitchy ol' Tweek alone in a place where there are at least a hundred different kinds of animals, a lot of them really fucking vicious. The kid would have a fucking heart attack!

I speed up my walk to a run, turning each corner so sharply that my fingers grasp for leverage on the old buildings of South Park. The tips of my fingers are nearly bleeding, but I've gotta go. No time to worry about something like that when Tweek might, you know, die of a heart attack due to pissed off animals.

At one particular sharp turn, I hit something. Hard.

All the air in my lungs is gone in an instant. The thing outweighs me, so I go soaring backwards, and it lands ungracefully ontop of me, goraning and rubbing its head. Fuck you, mysterious object, I'm probably in more pain than you! Its weight is crushing my ribs and is making it a wee bit hard to breathe, and it's not moving. It's laying on me lazily, whining about something I really don't fucking care about.

"Get off," I manage out, and the thing shifts and slowly, slowly, slowly pushes itself up on its arm. My vision is a little blurred because I think I hit my head pretty damn hard on the concrete. But the face, which is wincing in pain, looks weirdly familiar. It actually looks a lot like...me? What the shit?

"I said _get off_, me!" I say, wriggling wildly, hoping it'll help buck this weirdo doppelganger off. I...I mean, I guess, the other I, looks confused and sits back on his heels, staring down at me with this concerned look on his face.

"Uhm," he says uncertainly, daring to reach out and put a palm across my forehead. "Are you feeling okay, Craig?"

I reach up feebly and swat the hand away. "Of course I'm not feeling okay, you asshole. I just got hit by a speeding bag of meat. Fuck you."

Doppelganger Me laughs nervously and rubs the back of his head, standing up all the way and offering me his hand. I glare at it, because this is definitely not a doppelganger hand. As my vision comes back, I see it's nicely manicured and really soft looking. My hands have chipped, ragged nails- shut up, I bite them alot, okay?- and are covered in calluses and cuts.

I back away from the hand distrustfully. "Is this some kind of fucking parallel universe?" I demand, because that would make sense, since Doppelganger Me is a hell of a lot nicer than I am. The other me sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. That looks awfully familiar...

"Craig, what the fuck are you taking about?"

Before I can answer, he says, "Look, whatever. Are you okay? Because I have to go."

I stare up at him dumbly, because I am now like 70% sure that this is not a doppelganger of me. It must be some kid I know. I don't think he likes me very much. When I don't say anything, he sighs again, and saying, "Whatever. I'm leaving. I have to go find Kyle."

As he runs away, all athletic-like, I get it. I get to my feet angrily and shake my fist, equipped with my middle finger, at his retreating form. "FUCK YOU, MARSH."

And I'm on my merry way.

And by merry, I mean disoriented, stumbling, really achy way. Each step makes my joints jar. Like, fuck dude, how much does Marsh weigh? I feel like I've been hit by a truck. I don't think I'll make it to the zoo, man. I'm feeling a little fuckin woooooozy.

I lean heavily against the nearest building and slide down, landing harshly on my butt. I watch all the pretty colors and dots swirl by my vision. I ain't feelin' so well. Maybe I'll take a nap. I can meet Tweek later. He'll understand, right? I mean, there are things at the Zoo that are cooler than meeeee. They can entertain him! Like the tigers. Those guys are really. Fuckin. Tough. If I were as tough as a tiger, no one would fuck with me. Not even God, or that stupid bowler hat. No way, man. I'd be invincible.

...Am I high? How did this even happen? I don't think I am. I mean, I've been high before, but I don't think I felt this sick. I want to puke all over the flooooooooor.

I need some tiger-like features.

I need some Pepto Bismal.

I need a nap.

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Kenneth McCormick_

_Location: The McCormick Household_

I'm loungin. I'm sleepin', dozin', nappin', minding my own goddamn business. I'm just relaxin'.

Leave it to Kyle Broflovski to fuck it all up. H

e doesn't even bother to knock, you know. He just barges into my room, throws himself down on my bed, and starts crying. He's ranting and raving and doing alot of angry things that have to do with r's that I can't even think of, and his hand is scratching ferociously at his stomach.

And I don't know what to do. That may sound lousy of me, but as I said, I was sleeping! My brain isn't awake enough to deal with this.

"Kyle," I say, for lack of anything else. He immediately stops crying, snaps, "WHAT?" at me, and sits up in a flourish. His hand is still moving, so I grab it by the wrist and pin it to his side. He stares at me with these huge, red, tear-filled eyes, and I feel my heart crack.

"What, Kenny?" He sounds miserable. "What do you want from me? I'm just a stupid, selfish, heartless, cold-" He sounds so so fucking _miserable_. The crack on my heart widens and it just flat out breaks. Right into two neat halves that are crying. This is so sad, dude.

"Kyle, shut up. Just shut up and stop calling yourself stupid, and tell me what's wrong, okay?" He's taking quick breaths and is basically hyperventilating, so I take my hand off his wrist and gently rub his back. He melts into the touch and swats feebly at his stomach. I use my free hand to pin down _that_ wrist. "And what the hell is wrong with your stomach, dude? Jesus Christ."

Kyle pulls away from me and stands up, lifting his shirt, and I basically jump in surprise.

_Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww_.

"What the _fuck_ is that?!"

Kyle's stomach is red. It's redder than his hair. It's redder than blood. It's red and bumpy and some of it is bleeding and there are scratch marks all over it. There are lots of huge, angry welts covering his skin, and hot _damn _it is DISGUSTING.

Kyle looks at me miserably and pulls his shirt back down and promptly curls up into a ball, and starts crying. And crying. And crying. And I feel kind of bad for getting grossed out, but I can't help it! It's like. al;dfjal;dfjadsf. EW.

"I-it's a r-r-ash," he gasps out. "I get it f--f-fr-from being nervous."

My brows furrow and I slide off my bed and rub his back soothingly. "Hey, hey now, Ky. What're you so nervous about?"

He can' say anything for a while. So I let him cry it out. I feel really, really uncomfortable, because I hate when people cry, but this is Kyle. This is all right.

I say soothing things that I know don't mean a thing to him, but I think hearing me talk relaxes him. His muscles relax and he starts unfurling from his ball. He eventually sits up and lays his head against my shoulder. "I'm nervous about Stan," he says. He sounds tired. So, so tired.

"Why in the world are you nervous about Stan, huh?" I say. "You guys are best friends! You guys are _Super_ best friends. You're basically made for each other."

Kyle sighs heavily, "I'm worried that I'll mess everything up. I'm worried that I'll do something wrong and he'll hate me and I think he hates me now because I ran away. I ran away from him, Ken."

"Now, you listen here, Kyle Broflovski," I say, a little too harshly, I think. "Stan is crazy for you. He won't get mad at you for something like this. Now suck it up and go talk to him, okay?"

Kyle sits up straight and he looks real determined. He turns to me, and he smiles, and my heart pieces itself back together again. "Kenny...thank you. You're a good guy."

I smile and shrug, because sure, I'll let him think what he wants. He gets to his feet and swipes at his eyes, but then, then he looks uncertain. He shifts from one foot to the other, and then cautiously says, "Hey, Ken...I have to tell you something. I don't think it'll...well, I don't think it'll make you very happy."

I raise a brow. "Hm?"

Kyle looks around nervously, and I see him reach for his stomach again. I stand up and pin his hand to his side. "Just tell me, Kyle."

"Well, see...it's about Butters."

"Then you know I'm all ears."

Kyle sighs and looks me dead in the eye and says, "He's dating Pip."

Something snaps. I see red. I stumble backwards and fall onto my bed, and Kyle's at my side saying something, but I don't really care.

There's knocking at the door, and it's Stan. Kyle gets up and says something to him, and they're both crying, and Stan apologizes and they hug and it's not enough to lift me from this horrible, angry feeling I have.

Kyle says something. I think it's "Are you okay?" I nod anyway. He looks unconvinced, but he looks back to Stan, and back at me, and he figures that if I need him, I'll call.

He's gone.

I'm gone.

I've got someone I have to talk to, and it's not Kyle. I know what I have to do.

I get up to rummage through my closet, find a rope. This one looks long enough. My top shelf is high enough, I think.

I'm on a chair. It's around my neck. I hope this works, I hope to _God_ this works.

The chair wobbles.

It topples.

A crack.

Swing, swing.

* * *

**A/N: Sadsadsad. But don't worry, he didn't off himself for no good reason. There's a reason behind everything, my dears. Please don't kill me??  
**

**Next time: A funeral, a new clue towards the underwear gnomes, and a nice talk in Hell.  
**


	6. It's A Tragic Event

_Subject: Mr. Kyle Broflovski_

_Location: South Park Cemetery_

It's about 4:00 in the afternoon. Forecast? Rainy. Wet. Depressing.

Fitting.

There are approximately 67 people here. Approximately 16 of them actually know what's going on. The other 51 of them are here so they can get into the after-party once the service is over. Come to think of it, 11 of the people who know what's going on are only here to get into the after-party.

That makes 5 of us out of 67 present who actually don't care about the after-party. Who cry. Who care.

Those five people are Kenny's parents, Stan, Butters, and myself.

The thing we're here for is Kenny.

Kenny's corpse, to be exact.

Those words are ugly. They make my throat close up and I hate it. It really hurts when it constricts like that.

These things keep distracting me from what's going on around me. Come on, Kyle. Pay attention to the service. Look at the minister, not the coffin.

Stan's on my left, and he's looking straight ahead. I'm squeezing his hand. Hard. I can see him trying not to wince from the corner of my eye. He makes no move to pull away. He's a patient man. His face is stoic as it stares forward, eyes fixed on nothing as they blur, rendering blueblueblue all over the place. A few tears spill over his bottom eyelids and leave their trail along his cheeks before they dangle precariously off his jawline. They drop and his shirt politely soaks them up. And he still stays, staring blankly ahead.

Cartman is in the seat next to him, and is examining his nails with an air of disinterest. His eyes, unlike Stan's, are clear. Sharp, even, as they flick over to Kenny's coffin. He won't be crying anytime soon, his demeanor screams. He could care less about the boy in that coffin. He sighs loudly, rudely. He stretches and his suit stretches right along with him, showing off his chest unpleasantly. He looks around, and our eyes meet. I know he assumes I was staring at his chest. He holds his gaze steadily, before giving me a devious, wolfish grin, paired with a swift wink. I stare back blankly. I'm the first one to look away, and I can hear him chuckling quietly to himself. I don't have it in me to be upset or to tell him that he's full of fat, shit, and food.

Butters is on my right. His teeth are chattering in the cold, and he's snuggled up to Pip's side, crying into Pip's shirt. His eyes aren't visible, because he's keeping them steadily fastened on Pip's collar, which isn't very interesting. He refuses to look at Kenny's coffin, because each time he does, he breaks out in a noisy sob, hastily putting his handkerchief over his mouth to quiet the sound. Pip has his arm around Butters' shoulders, holding a small, black umbrella over both of them. The sight makes my heart sad. That should be Kenny, holding the umbrella, holding Butters. All that trouble, all for this?

The minister keeps talking, and the crowd is getting bored. There's scattered talking, some coughs, a sneeze. Some people have the gall to get up and leave.

Mrs. McCormick is in the front row, sobbing loudly, and for once, Mr. McCormick isn't drunk. Not yet, at least. He has his arm wrapped around her and she cries into his shoulder, and she's not yelling at him and he's not yelling at her, and I wish Kenny were around to see this. It's a rare sight.

The two of them get up and go to Kenny's open coffin, and they stare at their son and need I describe how they react? The crying gets louder, and there are comforting pats, and everyone knows consolation is useless.

Butters and Pip go up, and Butters clings onto Kenny's stone-cold hand until Pip physically pulls him away. Butters looks so desperate to stay by Kenny's side, and it breaks my heart. I hold onto Stan tighter.

It's our turn to go up. Cartman remains seated while we stand, and when Stan tells him to come, Eric waves his hand dismissively. Stan looks angry for a second and starts to walk back to the fatass, but I tug him along to the front, and he lets it go. Now's not the time.

I stop before we reach the coffin, because my heart seizes in my chest. My feet won't move and my brain only sends out one thought: Do I really want to see him like this?

Stan turns back and watches me for a long minute. He frowns and walks up to me and takes my face in his hands, and I melt into his touch like butter. His thumbs run over my face, chasing away the tears I didn't even know where there. He doesn't say anything, but he's doesn't have to, because my heart loosens its terrified grip enough for it to allow my body to be pulled forward to where Kenny is. Stan knows what he's doing. Right? My heart is doing that nervous jig again when I reach the edge of the coffin and grip the edges of it tightly.

Kenny is...white. He's paler than I've ever been in my life. He's stiff and rigid and cold, and not like Kenny. Not even a little bit. Maybe if I could see his eyes...but, his eyes aren't open, and they won't be again. Oh, I wish I could see his eyes. I need him to be Kenny again. This is not Kenny. This is a lie.

The rest of the service after that is a blur. Everyone's seen Kenny, whether they wanted to or not. The ground's been opened. He's being lowered. He's in the ground. They're covering him up. Kenny's mom is screaming.

And I'm running.

I don't want to be here anymore. In this duddy ol' graveyard. Surrounded by all these goddamn fakes and all their goddamn tears.

I just want to see his eyes again.

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Craig Tucker_

_Location: South Park Cemetery_

Tweek and I are at McCormick's funeral.

Not for the first time, though. This kid dies basically every other fucking week, so why Broflovski and Stotch are making such a big stink about it, I don't even know. He'll come back won't he? It's no use crying over spilled milk, right? I mean, milk and dead friends aren't exactly the same, but really, now, they aren't really that different either. They're both useless.

I came out of courtesy. Okay, okay, so it's because Tweek basically dragged me here. What can I say? The guy is really respectful, and when he got the invitation from Mr. Dead and Gone's parents, he got real determined to actually come, because he said they need support. How the fuck am I supposed to give them support? I don't even know them. And I hated their late son. I doubt I could be of any comfort to them.

I really didn't want to come, so I spend the entire service bored out of my fucking brain. I spend most of my time kicking at the mud and trying to catch raindrops ontop of my fingernails. They bubble up all weird and look like Jell-o when I manage to, and then they separate and join back together again like amoebas. It's entertaining enough for now.

McCormick's mom is crying really loudly, and from time to time, I can hear Stotch join her in really depressing unison. He's gaying it up with that foreign kid and is probably crying harder than McCormick's parents are; he's just doing it a lot quieter.

It's so depressing here. I hate depressing things. I want to get the fuck out of here.

I tilt my head to the side and make sure my voice is a low whisper before saying, "Hey Tweekers, let's get out of this shithole."

Tweek doesn't say anything back.

I frown and tilt my head furthur to the side. I raise my whisper just a smidge. "Tweekers. Hey, Tweekers."

He doesn't answer again. I'm mildly worried that I offended him. I'm actually much more indignant than I am worried, though. So I turn sharply to him with a glare, to chastise him for ignoring my subtle hints. Problem is, though, that he's not there when I turn around. He's just...gone.

I stare blankly at his now-empty chair. I shift awkwardly and look around. No one I know well enough to move next to. Not that I would if I did see someone suitable. Kenny lies, dead at the front of this sea of depressing assholes. I clear my throat. Uhm.

Well, now what?

I get answered by a sharp tug on my sleeve, that pulls me not-so-gracefully to the ground. I land harshly and awkwardly on my side. I get mud down my shirt on impact. There might even be some in my pants. It's all squiiiishy. Ew.

Whoever pulled me down is now dragging me along the floor as they crawl hastily before me, and being the smooth and active guy I am, I go limp and let myself be lugged through a countless number of legs belonging to my fellow mourners. They all glare at me as I roll across their nice, clean, church shoes, and I give them a blank stare in return before I'm gone like the wind.

I get pulled along Token's feet, and he glares at me, and kicks me in the side. I flip him off and am on my way. Black asshole.

It's not until I'm at the entrance of the cemetery that my kidnapper finally stops and gives me a chance to, you know, sit up and check and see if I left any appendages in this getaway. I examine myself slowly, and find only, to mild disappointment, that no, none of my appendages are missing. I'm just really fucking filthy.

I'm about to voice my disappointment when a hand slaps itself over my mouth, and with that, I know who my attacker is. It's Tweek, because the hand is shaking violently against my lips. I lift my eyes to meet his, which are looking at me in wild excitement. I raise a brow at him, and he puts a finger to his lips and tries to shush me, even though I didn't say anything. He moves his finger from his lips so he can point proudly at a speck of mud on the floor. I roll my eyes and gesture vaguely around us, trying to say, "Look around us, dipshit," except it comes out more like "Mmph fuufugh phmf, mmmpgfff." It isn't nearly as effective as I had hoped, but he gets the idea.

He rolls his eyes and points tremendously at the same spot, and pulls me over so I can take a closer look. It takes me a moment, but damn, I could recognize that anywhere.

It's gnome shit.

Right there, in all it's shitty glory. Tweek looks immensely proud of himself and then points further up ahead, and I can then see there's a trail. There's a trail!

I make a sound of surprise, and Tweek moves his hand, expecting me to say something. I don't though. I just pull on his hand and start following the trail, because hey, I'm a sucker for treasure trails. He seems delighted at the fact that as into this as he is, and he pulls close to me, shaking violently in excitement. I put an arm around his shoulder smugly. Score one for Tucker.

We follow the trail, which unceasingly leads us throughout town, past all the shops and restaurants, right into the housing area of town. Tweek's eyes are intent on the ground; my eyes are intent on Tweek. He's got this elated look on his face, and it's enough to coax a smile out of Mr. Stoic McMe. He's just so damn cute.

We're both so intent upon looking at our objects of choice that neither one of notice, oh, you know, a wall, until we run smack right into it. Tweek cries out in despair and is back on his feet in an instant, looking around desperately for his trail. My head is spinning for me to do much else but sit there uselessly. But story of my life, right?

"I FOUND IT. DON'T WORRY, CRAIG, I FOUND IT," Tweek all but shrieks, falling on his knees in excitement and staring intently at the glob. I shake my head clear and look myself. The trail stops here, right at a basement window, and Tweek is looking at it, determined.

I shrug and sigh. "It went into someone's house. We can't go any farther."

Tweek is quiet. I look up at him suspiciously, and see him shaking with a fervor that's rare for the little guy. "I know what we could do," he says after a long while.

I raise a brow. "Tweek..."

He gives a final giant shake and smiles daringly. "We could break in."

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Leopold "Butters" Stotch_

_Location: The Little Park by Tom's Rhinoplasty_

I-I can't b-breathe. I'm hyperventilating, and Pip has a brown bag to my mouth to help calm me down, but goodness, I just can't breathe. It hurts too much, and thinking about it makes it even worse.

Kenny...KennyKennyKenny is...and I didn't even...

I-I can't th-think. My brain is scattered and I have this lousy crushing feeling and and the only thing keeping me grounded is the hand making circles on my back and the voice whispering sweet-nothings into my ears. It's coaxing me back so I'm leaning against a chest, and hands are running through my hair and wiping away my tears.

"I'll always be here for you, dear," says the voice and I want it so very badly to be Kenny, but I know it's not, so I cry harder. The voice hushes me, and it hums softly and golly, I'm tired. But I can't sleep. I'm wide awake and terrified, because this time is a lot different than all the others, ain't it? No bastard k-killed Kenny. Kenny just...he just killed himself. C-can he come back from that?

Lips are on my forehead, and they move against it, telling me to sleep, I'm exhausted. Gee, this voice knows more about me than I do. I am awfully tired.

I lay down, rest my head on a leg. The hands are back and raking through my hair. The voice says something about Kenny, and I'm too gone to understand anything else but that name. I wish, I wish, I wish.

I-I can't b-breathe...and, well, I don't know if I want to.

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Kenneth McCormick_

_Location: Hell._

"You see?"

"..."

I"m met with silence from the Prince of Darkness, and I shrug and recline in my chair. Damien is sitting a few feet away from me, staring at his father's crytstal ball-thingy that shows him the world above, an indecipherable look on his face. The image of Butters, that cute lil' guy, laying on Pip McFuckFace's lap as the latter got his nasty finger grease all up in Butters' weave. I haven't been in Hell too long yet, but it's not like I haven't been here before. Every time I die, which is increasingly often, actually, I come straight here.

It's given me some time to meet some interesting friends, though. I've had dinner with MacArthur and got ice cream with Stalin. I've met every creep to ever have roamed the earth, and since only Mormons go to Heaven, I've met a shit-load of regular folk as well. Too bad Kyle isn't here- there are tons of his favorite dead authors chilling around the fourth pit of screaming souls.

But if there's one person I've become most acquainted with, it's ol' Damien son of Satan here. First of all, the guy is hot. Literally. The guy can shoot fire from his fingertips, which is really fucking badass. And he's sexy. But ain't the bad guys always the attractive ones?

He's currently got this real concentrated look on his face as he stares pensively at the now-blank orb. He's quiet for a long while, and I'm about ready to get up and find me some goddamn cigarettes, when he sighs and leans back in his chair. He rubs his forehead, exasperated.

"Pip, Pip, Pip," he says slowly in admonishment. He looks over at me and sighs again, and flicks a cigarette, which appeared out of nowhere, at me. I fumble and drop it. Smooth moves, McCormick.

"Well," he says. "Your plan worked, Kenneth."

I put on my best innocent face and grin naively, "Why, what plan?"

He just shakes his head as a way of saying You-Know-What-I-Mean.

My plan, see, was this. Well, back before Damien, you know, disappeared into Hell, he and Pip had...a thing. And I know that Pip never got over it; he never really had any other friends. So what better way to break Pip and my Butters up than bring in a old beau as a new adversary, hm? What, did you think I offed myself for no good reason? Fuck naw, man. I love myself far too much for that.

I just needed to talk to Damien.

"Well," I say, slipping out of my chair and standing behind Damien's draping my arms around his neck. "If I were to have a plan, in what way did it work?" Damien shrugs and leans his head back on my chest.

"Well, I don't know, Kenneth. I was thinking...date-crashing?"

I grin widely, but it fades immediately as Damien says, "So, Kenneth, was this really worth it?"

I know what it is, and I draw my arms away from him. He's got the upper hand this time. Asshole.

"They know I'll come back," I say. Dammit, that didn't even sound convincing to me. Damien smiles horribly at me and I shiver violently. Son of Satan, here, Ken. Never forget.

"Are you going back?" He says, and I find my way back to my chair.

"Of course I am," I snap. "I always go back."

Damien stands up and stretches leisurely, like a cat. "But you weren't killed this time, Kenneth. How do you know you _can_ go back?"  
I freeze. Shit. SHIT. What a good fucking point. Uhm. Fuck.

Damien stares at me as I pause in horror, before he bursts out laughing and drops back into his chair. His laugh creeps the fuck out of me, man. It's really devious and, well, evil. It shouldn't be a surprise, but it gets me every time. "Relax, Kenneth," he says. "Of course you can go back. I was just messing with you."

I stare at him dumbfounded. "That wasn't funny, Damien!"

He grins widely at me and just nods like a dumbass.

Man, fuck Hell. This place sucks.

* * *

**A/N: Short chapter, yes. But I got it out! Yaaay me!**

**Also, next time: Craig and Tweek plan for their break-in, Butters and Pip have an unpleasant confrontation with the son of Satan, and Kyle and Wendy get ready for a showdown.**


	7. It's An Actual Earthquake!

_Subject: Mr. Kenneth McCormick_

_Location: ?_

A smile. A giggle. A glance. Blue eyes dart back and forth between a milkshake and a blond with matching blue eyes sitting across from them, afraid of looking too long. The blond just smiles back sweetly, holding hands that are small and pale and frail. The frail hands are shaking slightly, but fleeting eyes show that it's not from nervousness; it's from happiness. No one has treated these hands so delicately since dead-and-gone-Kenny-McCormick, and it feels nice to be wanted. The smaller blond smiles in joy, and the other blond smiles back, and the whole scene is so sugary sweet, it makes Eric Cartman's heart melt.

Maybe.

It makes the sunshine.

It makes Stanely Marsh and Kyle Broflovski's fling seem like sour berries.

It makes me sick.

I'm anxious. This is it; the big moment, the moment I've been waiting for ever since I offed myself and came to reside in this lovely, steaming hot pile of shit known as Hell. I'm shifting from foot to foot, my eyes are darting from damned soul to damned soul, my heart is racing faster than it ever did when I was alive. This is it. This is when I end that sickening scene going on above ground, when I crush that little foreign kid's face back into his head, when I finally, finally, hold Butters to my chest and have him _understand_. And I'm sweating up a storm here, folks. It's already hot in Hell; this anxiety and my parka ain't helping matters much.

I've been waiting here, right by the third highest stalagmite in the 5th circle; waiting for the Prince of Darkness to show his pretty little face so we can carry out our heart-crushing, boyfriend-stealing, kind-of-immoral plan.

But I've been waiting for, what, 40 minutes? Where the hell is he? I'm not sure how much longer I'm going to wait for him, because, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not really the most patient guy. I mean I really, really hate waiting. I just fucking _hate_ it. It makes me uncomfortable, because I get this nagging feeling in my mind that the person I'm waiting for has gone and forgotten all about me. I don't have much ambition in life, but the one thing I never want to be is forgotten.

After another five minutes of waiting- and man, oh, man, I was sure a busy guy. I managed to scratch my arm 34 times, crack my neck 10 times, and twiddle my thumbs for 2 minutes straight- surpassed my limit. My patience finally caves in and I roll my shoulders back and set off to look for Damien. Like Hell he can stand _me_ up, amirite? Of course I'm right.

I navigate my way through the throngs of other miserable shmucks like myself that inhabit this lovely Hellhole. I skillfully dodge their invitations to go drinking, taking extra effort to get Ghandi off my back. He's a persistent little fucker, let me tell you that.

I trudge through the piles of ash, shake off a few dozen burning souls, put out a few small fires that start on my parka from flying sparks of coal, before I finally reach Damien's humble abode. And by humble, I mean pretentious.

See, being the son of Satan has its perks.

By that, I mean that Damien is one privileged kid. He has things that I can't even dream of; things that I could never hope to buy even if I saved up for them throughout the span of my entire life.

And by that, I mean that Damien gets a shitload of things that would cost a fuckload of money back up on Earth.

And by _that_, I mean that Damien lives in a castle. Yes, a castle. Like, medieval times style castle, except with modern insulation- plumbing, air conditioning, and somehow, cable. My mind flashes back to my dingy little house, with its broken windows, caving-in ceiling, and constant power outages, and I scowl. Fuck you and your fancy shit, Damien. Just. Just fuck you.

I go up to the huge doors and grab ahold of the door-knocker, which looks suspiciously like a human jaw bone, and pound with all my might. The sound resides through the cavernous atmosphere and rattles around in my brain as I wait. Wait, wait, wait. Is that all I ever do anymore? It sure as fuck feels like it is.

I keep shifting from foot to foot, and I'm grabbing for the jaw bone again when the mighty doors creak open a bit to reveal a bloodshot, brown eye, looking out at me. I raise a brow and try to nudge the door open furthur with my foot.

"Yes?" says a voice, sounding as tired and strained as the eye staring out at me looks.

"I wanna see Damien."

"The Master does not want to be seen."

"I wanna see him."

"The Master is not available."

"Fuck that."

The eye's brow furrows at me and I shrug and push the doors apart so I can slip myself through. The eye's figure blocks my way weakly, but I easily brush it aside, seeing as it's, well...it's a zombie. It's this weak, decayed creature with brown eyes left unprotected by no eyelids. Its flesh is missing in so many places that it's predominately bone, and the skin that _is_ there is kind of greenish and covered in boils. When I push it, it makes this painful groan and stumbles onto the stump of bone that's there instead of a foot. I shrug, mutter a sorry, and zip up the stairs as it reaches out a gnarled hand after me in a weak attempt to stop me. Dude, really. What the faaaaaack was that?

Shrug it off, McCormick, shrug it off. You're a man on a mission.

The upstairs to Damien's castle is just as huge as the rest of it. To the left, there's a long hallway. To the right, there's a long hallway. So really, either way, I'm fucked. But I'm a determined kind of guy, you know, and I've got a Butters to go snatch, so I spin myself around in a circle and start walking in one direction. The doors to each side look a lot like hotel rooms- they all have numbers plastered on the front, and really have no defining characteristics. They're all painted red, with glossy black paint adorning the frames. Each has a tiny peep-hole that comes equipped with eyelashes, which is just fucking creepy. Again, fuck you, Damien.

I pass by door after door, each as plain looking as the last, and I start to get this frustrated feeling in my chest. I'm reaching the end of the hallway, and I...I just don't know what to do. How the fuck am I supposed to know which room is Damien's?

Oh.

I'm at the end of the hallway, and I'm face to face with a door that's supsiciously different than the others.

And by _that_, I mean that it's a black door with a red frame. Which is new.

Oh, and there's a diamond door knob instead of a plain brass one, like the others.

Oh, and it says _Damien_ in bold, dark red letters.

Huh.

I think about knocking, I really do, but you know, fuck that. I reach right for that bloody door knob, open the door, and let myself right the fuck in. And am immediately knocked back into the hallway. Not by a person, surprisingly enough. Not gonna lie, I did have this nagging feeling that Damien was going to knock my face in the moment I stepped foot in the room. But no, no, that's not it. In fact, Damien is nowhere in sight. But Jesus Christe, the _smell_. It's like. It's like the death chamber that a bathroom becomes after Cartman spends thirty minutes in there after we go to Chipotle. It's like a pile of dead bodies. It's like Cartman's mom's vagina. Dear _Lord_, it's. It's indescribable.

My eyes are watering, and honestly, I don't know if I can go in there. But Butters' face flashes across my mind, and for a moment, my nostrils smell shea butter because that's the kind of shampoo Butters uses, and you know, I can do this. I _have_ to do this. I sigh deeply as the smell fades away and that pervading stench comes wafting back into my consciousness. I sigh again, pull my parka snugly over the lower half of my face, and brave it.

Damien's room somehow seems to be the same size as the rest of his house- erm, his castle. Which, I know, doesn't make sense, but I'm in Hell. Does it really have to? And in this expanse of repugnant wasteland, there is no Damien to be found.

And I want to cry out in frustration.

So I do.

I just let it all out, because my situation is lousy, Hell is lousy, and this whole fucking world and beyond is lousy.

"Goddammit Damien!" I know, I know, I'm screaming to an empty room. But I'm frustrated. The smell of shea butter drifts just beyond my reach, but it's being sucked into the filthy, British lungs of that lousy, no good foreign kid, and I can't reach it. I let out a weird gurgle and collapse to the floor and bury my face into my knee, sniffling uselessly...

...When I hear, "Damien isn't here," in a muffled, familiar voice. A muffled, familiar voice sounds an awful lot like Damien's.

My head shoots up and I scramble to my feet. "Don't fuck with me," I say to the empty room, spinning on my heel in a full circle. "Where the fuck are you, Damien?"

"I said, Damien isn't here." The voice is coming from my right, but seeing as Damien's room is a fucking maze, that's an incredibly vague indication as to where the source is.

"Fuck you, yes he is!"

"Fuck you, McCormick, no he isn't!" Closer. I'm getting closer. I can see the wall of the opposite side of the room now.

"Fuck you!"

"Fuck _you!_" There are two doors on this side, and the voice continues to whine at me from behind one of them. I'm so close. _So close_.

"Fuck!"

"...Just go away, Kenneth."

"A-hah!"

I leap for the closet door on my left-hand side and rip it open, exposing Damien, curled up in a ball. He whines pathetically and scrambles farther back into the bundles of clothes on the floor, and keeps yelling at me to go away. I frown and reach for him, grabbing a hold of his shirt and dragging him out into the open. He keeps whining at me and swipes at my hands, and I can't help but laugh because this is Satan's son. This is the fucking Prince of Darkness here, folks, and he's whining like Cartman when I steal his KFC.

"I said go away! I want to be left alone!" He tries to wriggle out of my grasp, so I use what I like to call the "Stan-tactic" and straddle his waist. He makes a strangled noise and squirms more, and hell, it's not my fault that I'm starting to get a stiffy from this.

I mean, really, it's inevitable. We'll both just have to live with the consequences.

"Fuck that!" I say, grabbing his flailing wrists and trapping them in my hands. "You stood me up, you fuck nugget!"

"Leave me alone!"

"No!"

"Stop!"

"No!'

"Fuck you!"

"No, fuck _you_, whiny ass punk!"

He doesn't say anything, so I don't either. We sit there in silence, and he makes a few more futil attempts. I'm not sure why he doesn't just set me on fire and be done with it, but I guess I can't complain.

"...Kenneth. Are you...?"

"Yes. Yes, I am."

"God_dammit,_ Kenneth."

I shrug and move on. Again, he should have seen this coming. "Why were you a no show, then?"

He looks hesitant to answer, so I roll my hips suggestively against his thigh and say, "Well, I guess we can talk later and you know...do _other_ stuff now."

"No."

"Awh, come on."

"I'd rather talk," he says with a grimace. I grin and climb off of him, settling myself cross-legged next to him while he sits up.

"Then talk."

He looks forlornly down at his hands and mutters something.

"What?" I say loudly, to prompt him to speak up.

He mumbles a little bit louder, and I catch something about "nervous," but I can't hear the rest and am thoroughly intrigued.

"WHAAAAT?"

"I _said_, that I'm nervous because what if Pip doesn't still like me and I'd be wasting my time and I-" and at that point he just breaks off into "boohoos" and sobs and I'm staring at him in shock. What. Wh-what?

He just keeps crying, oblivious to my incredulity. And he keeps at it for about a whole minute before he quiets down and looks at me with big, red eyes.

He sniffles pathetically a few times.

He wipes his nose on his sleeve.

I stare rudely.

...

"You," I finally manage, "are such a pussy."

"Hey, guess what? Fuck you."

"No, but like, seriously. You're like, the biggest pussy I've ever met in my life. Ever. And keep in mind, I know Mrs. Cartman."

Damien doesn't say anything, and so I keep going. "I mean, really, dude, you're the motherfucking son of motherfucking Satan. And you're worried about_ this_? Really? _Really?_"

"Shut up."

"No!"

He looks taken aback by my outburst, and looks even more bewildered when I suddenly shoot to my feet and jerk him up by his wrists after me. He makes another whining noise and protests weakly as I start dragging him towards the door. "Seriously, Kenneth, let me go! I don't want to go!"

"Fuck you, I don't care. I did _not_ hang myself so that you could go and hide in your closet like some kind of queer. We're going to the living world, we're going to break up that corny little love scene of lies, and we're going to do it right."

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Stanley Marsh_

_Location: South Park Retirement Home_

It's hard to breathe. My nose is smooshed awkwardly to the side. My cheeks are stretched out to their limits, my tongue against a smooth, hard plane. Kyle is laughing breathlessly nearby, and I finally run out of breath and pull back. I cough a few times, and Kyle just laughs harder at me, and pats me on the back.

My jaw is tired, because, see, I've been making faces at the old people through this window for the past fifteen minutes. Pressing your face against glass for a quarter of an hour can really wear a guy out, you know? I know what you were thinking, you little pervert, but no. It wasn't that. Not even a little bit. It was face-making at old-people.

Perv.

...

Shit, dude, I'm tired.

I hear Kyle ask if I'm all right, because I'm slumped against the building like a lump. But I just smile up at him, because this is just like the good old days, when we'd spend hours making faces at old people hooked up to defibilators. Where we didn't have to worry about crushes or love or perverts mistaking face-making with blowjobs. Though I'm not opposed to the blowjob part, but you know what I mean.

You know, the good old days.

Kyle slides down the wall and lands on his ass next to me, his giggles dying down into breathless chuckles. He looks at me, and I can't help but grin wider, because his eyes are just sparkling. It's making me melt.

I keep staring at him so hard that I barely notice a hand slipping slyly into my own. Fingers timidly intertwine with mine. A palm presses itself softly to mine. Kyle's eyes have stopped sparkling; they're hesitant, worried, apprehensive. They're scared of rejection.

I think my heart has stopped.

I don't know what to do. Want to help me out, instinct? Help me know what to do. I'm clueless. Kyle...he's made the first move. He's finally, finally made the first move, all on his own. What do I do, instinct? Help me!

Oh.

My fingers instinctively curl around his. My palm snuggles close to his. My heart starts beating again, faster, faster, faster, too fast. Kyle's eyes sparkle again, relief showing plainly on his face as he starts smiling again. I start smiling too. So fucking big that the edges of my mouth hurt even more than before. Kyle sighs contently and his sparkling eyes turn away from me, as he looks out towards the street. The eyes close, and his head plops down onto my shoulder. I rest my head on top of his and breathe in deeply, the smell of soap invading my senses. Honestly, dude, nothing could ruin this moment.

Nothing.

...

Except for the sight that next greets my eyes.

The sight of two skinny legs wrapped neatly in purple socks comes into my sight. My brows furrow, because those socks look awfully familiar. They look just like the socks that used to lay on my couch while a body snuggled close to mine while I tried to lean away uncomfortably. The socks that would show up, folded neatly in my laundry basket after an afternoon of frolicking in the snow.

Shit, man.

It's Wendy.

I look up and see her staring down at us, looking wildly annoyed, with her hands on her hips and one foot tapping like she's some kind of cliche. Kyle looks up at her lazily and gives her a winning smile, to which she replies with a hateful scowl. Kyle looks taken aback, and even bothers to lift his head from my shoulder to look at her in confusion. To which she replies with a scowl.

"Hi Wendy," I say politely, keeping Kyle's fingers trapped in between mine, despite his now-desperate attempts to dislodge himself. Like Hell this is ending just because my ex is here, right?

"Stanley," she says coldly, her eyes narrowing in on our intertwined hands. "What is this?"

"What is what?" I ask innocently, scooting my ass closer to Kyle, who makes a strangled noise and tries to scramble away. I squeeze his hand tighter and he calms himself to some extent. So I mean that he's stopped shaking and has resorted to gnawing on his lower lip like a motherfucker.

Wendy motions violently at our hands, and I laugh and shrug and Kyle makes another gurgling noise.

"What, are you _gay_ now, Stanley?" she says angrily, her hands flying into the air in incredulity.

"Is that what they're calling it these days? Then yeah, I guess so."

"No...no, no, no, this isn't right."

I raise an eyebrow, because Wendy has stopped yelling in favor of whispering to herself in a worried, hushed voice. "No, no, no, my ex-boyfriend cannot be...he' can't...," she trails off and starts pacing back and forth in front of us. She stops and rubs her chin, like some kind of cartoon character, and shakes her head at the ground. I look over at Kyle, who looks over at me, and we both raise an eyebrow. I jab my thumb over at Wendy and mouth, '_Craaaaaazy~_," to which Kyle just giggles. At the sound of his voice, Wendy seems to snap out of a reverie and suddenly whirls on her heel, pointing a perfectly manicured nail at him. She's fallen on her knees so that she's nearly nose to nose with him. Kyle just shrinks back into the wall uncomfortably, since she is,you know, invading his very large personal space bubble.

"_You_," she hisses savagely, baring her teeth in an extremely un-Wendy-like manner. "_You_ made him like this, you little queer."

"Uhm," Kyle says brilliantly.

Wendy looks at him in disgust and pulls back, standing up and brushing off her knees. "I'll tell you what, Broflovski," she says. "I'll fight you for him."

"Uhm," Kyle says again, looking at me in confusion.

I raise a brow at Wendy and say, "Wendy, I don't think you can fight for me. I mean, I've kind of already chosen Kyle, so..."

"Shut up, Stan, you're not part of this."

"Oh."

"Anyway, Broflovski, I'll fight you for him. Meet me at the playground by Tom's Rhinoplasty tomorrow at three o'clock sharp. If not, I'll tell everyone about you two little fags and your little relationship."

And with that, Wendy whirls on her heel again and sets marching off down the street.

"Kyle?"

"Yeah?" Kyle's voice is a lil' shaky, and really, I don't blame him. An angry Wendy is a scary one.

"Is our relationship, you know, a secret to be revealed?"

Kyle looks at me and shrugs. "I didn't think so."

"Yeah, me either," I reply. "Is it just me or does Wendy seem a lot less...uhm, intelligent?"

"No, no, it's not just you."

"Good to know."

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Butters Stotch_

_Location: Shakey's Pizza_

I don't think I've been this flustered since...well, probably since the last time I saw Kenny, before I saw him and Thom-...and that boy doing...doing naughty things in that alleyway.

The time I'm talking about was this time when Kenny and I went to the movies. We were sitting next to each other, all innocent and all, and we'd nudge each other in the side and giggle and talk, but then the movie started to get scary. Like, really, really scary. And I may or may not have screamed.

Okay, so I screamed like a girl and clutched onto Kenny's sleeve with all my might. And Kenny just looked over at me, and the next thing I knew, he was a'holdin' my hand all gentle-like. I gripped onto his hand like the world was ending, but he didn't really seem to mind. He just smiled gently, told me everything was going to be okay, and kissed me on the forehead.

See, that's the Kenny I liked. I mean, I liked Kenny all the time, but I got upset sometimes when he would go and hold hands with other people. I didn't like it when he would kiss Bebe or Clyde or Token. I didn't like it when he would try to explain it to me. I didn't like him when he tried to tell me about his experiences. I actually kind of hated him.

No, I liked it when he was all gentle and kind with me. I liked it when he would let me stay at his house when my parents would kick me out for being a delinquent. I liked it when he would come to my house and fix me a bowl of my favorite cereal and ruffle my hair while we secretly watched cartoons while my parents were out. I liked him when he would hug me and hold me to his chest and not let go for a whole minute or two. I actually might of loved him.

Thinking about him still makes me tear up something awful, which is embarrassing because it's happening right now, and I'm well...see, I'm kind of on a date with Pip, you know? H-he asked me to come here with him after Kenny's f-funeral, and I've just been so darn sad lately, that I thought this might be a nice cheer up. And it is, don't get me wrong! It's just, Pip keeps holding my hands really carefully, and it reminds me a whole lot like that time I just told you about. It reminds me a whole lot of Kenny.

So I start tearing up, and Pip, who is sitting across from me, immediately gets this concerned look on his face, and his hands move from my hands up to my face. He grasps one side of it and says softly, "Are you quite all right, dear one?"

"Well, gee, I'm fine."

"Then why ever are you all teary-eyed?"

"Oh, that? Well, that's nothin'. Don't worry about it," I say nervously, my hands balling into fists so that I can grind my knuckles together. Pip looks unconvinced, but lets his hands drop from my face to hold my hands steady. I look at him with wide eyes. He smiles brightly back.

This whole experience is awfully nice. Pip is awfully nice, too.

I don't think anything could ruin today, really.

Pip pulls back and takes a sip at the Oreo milkshake we're sharing, smiling shyly at me the whole while, when there's a slight rattling noise. I dismiss it as me shaking the table, because my leg is jiggling something awful. If I can't rub my knuckles together, I have to do _something_, you know? But it's when the rattling gets louder, and the glass that Pip is drinking out of starts to shake that I get the feeling that something ain't right. Pip draws back, looking alarmed, and other people in the restaurant start making startled noises. Pip jumps up out of his seat as the rattling gets violent, and the ground starts to shake.

"It's an earthquake!" he yells, grabbing my wrist and yanking me out of my chair. I lose my balance because the floor is seizing something awful. Pip is reaching for me, but a chasm opens up between us and we're moved further and further apart. Hamburgers, I think I might wet myself!

Pip is yelling my name from across the chasm, and I reach weakly for him, but really, it's no use. I know I'll just fall in if I try to reach for him, so I do the only thing I can- which is to scramble far, far away from the gaping whole in the ground to cower in the corner.

Fire starts to lick its way up the sides of the chasm, before it turns into a full-on blaze. A horrible chorus of screams drifts up from below, and I desperately cover my ears to drown it out. The Earth keeps shaking, and my heart might stop beating because I'm so darn scared. And it gets worse, because I see a hand reach up out of the flames and grab onto the ledge of the chasm. I see a person start to pull themselves up from the screaming hole, followed by a person that just seems to float up, without having to grab onto anything at all.

They're just dark figures against the flames.

The floating one actually just floats right on forward, and all I can make out is a pair of glowing red eyes. It floats past the rising flames, leaving behind the other struggling figure, and floats right towards where dear old Pip is, sitting in awe on his knees with his hands together in a prayer. His rosemary dangles from between his clasped hands. The figure lands right in front of him, and suddenly, the fire dies out. The ground just seems to sew itself right back up. And the floating figure becomes visible.

It's a kid, just like us, with dark, dark black hair and pale, pale skin. He's got red eyes and is smiling nastily down at Pip, and you know what? This kid looks awfully familiar.

Pip is looking up at him with the same, awed expression as before. His hands start to shake violently. His rosemary goes crashing to the ground. His lips tremble something awful, before he makes out, "D-damien?"

"Hello, Pip," says the boy, grinning devilishly, showing alarmingly sharp teeth.

Pip looks like he's at a loss for words. He struggles to his feet, never taking his eyes off of Damien, who stands there smugly, with his freak teeth bared. Pip's shaking hands lift themselves to rest on each side of Damien's face, before in an unexpected act of exhuberance, Pip throws his arms around Damien's neck and he plants his lips firmly onto the other's. Damien smiles against him, smug, and wraps one arm around Pip's waist. The other one is doing a very inappropriate gesture at me. I call Pip's name weakly, but he ignores me and the kiss is deepened.

I feel like crying.

I scramble to my feet and watch in despair, as I see yet another good thing in my life get ripped away from me. Golly...I don't want to complain or anything, but I feel like things have been going...well, they've been going just awfully for me, haven't they? I mean, first, I lose Kenny to Hell, and now I lose Pip to Hell's son.

Goddammit.

I shakily make my way outside of the ruined restaraunt, making it no further than the curb before I break down into tears and have to stop. I land harshly on my ass and draw my knees to my chest and bury my face into them. My kneecap is pressing painfully into my eye, but I don't really care. I let out a frustrated noise, because can't anything ever go my way?

I hear someone come and sit next to me, but I ignore them, which is pretty rude, but I think I have an excuse to be a little cold right now.

"Hey there, stranger. Why all the tears?" asks a voice softly, a hand resting hesitantly on my back.

"I-II just got d-du-dumped..." I manage out, not wanting to be even ruder than I already have been.

"Awh, dollface, don't be sad. That guy was a shmuck anyways," says the voice in a comforting, oddly familiar tone. The hand on my back finds its way to the hair on the nape of my neck, which is runs its fingers through softly.

"Oh, no, he was an awfully nice boy," I say in a muffled voice, sitting up to wipe my tears away. I take a glance at the person with their fingers all up in my hair's biznizz, and my heart darn near stops again.

Because there, with the same, dirty, old parka, and the same, mischievous blue eyes, and the same, wily, big smile, sits Kenny McCormick, laughing up a storm as he waves happily at me. I cry out, which I admit, was a little girly, and throw my arms around him, burying my face in his neck, and laying out a fresh batch of tears. He just laughs again and wraps his arms tightly around me, telling me that it's going to be okay, everything is fine and he places a kiss on my forehead.

I like it- I like _him_- when he's all gentle-like with me.

* * *

**A/N: Yes, I do realize that I put in no Craig/Tweek in this chapter. But I had a hard enough time dealing it out, let alone making it longer.**

**I apologize!**

**They will be back!**

**But yeah, there you have it. I should have an easier time getting out chapters because school is over and all, so I've got allll summer. So yeah. Okay. I'm done. Tahtah.**

**Next time: Basically, all hell breaks loose. Craig and Tweek get in a not-so-pretty fight, Cartman plays Hello Kitty Adventure Island, Kyle and Wendy scuffle it out, Kenny finds a way to express his undying affection, and Stan finds out a shocking secret. And commits a crime. DUNDUNDUUUUUUN.**


	8. It's Disaster!

**So, I was looking through old stuff with my mom, and I came across my old rosary. And being the ignorant bastard I am, I said, "Hey, man! This is definitely **_**my**_** rosemary, Mom." And my mother looks at me, and says, "Um. Rosemary is a spice, sweetheart. Did I steal your spices?" And that's when I totally realized that rosemary does not equal roseary. And I immediately thought, WELL POOP, I TOTALLY PUT ROSEMARY IN MY FIC. So yeah. Last chapter, I totally meant that Pip was praying with a rosary. Not a delicious spice. Glad we got that cleared up.**

**Also, sorry this took so damn long to write. See, the thing is, I got drawn in by Ben 10 and his attractive self, and I got distracted. And then, I ran out of Ultimate Alien/Alien Force episodes to watch, and I was all ready to come back to the world of South Park but then...Roxas struck. And I found myself back in the Kingdom Hearts world. But I mean, can you blame me? Look at Roxas' face. Look at those big, blue eyes. LOOK AT HIM. HE'S SO CUTE. **

**And then Soul Eater struck. I haven't been struck this hard since Kingdom Hearts, guys. I mean. Death the Kid. Dear Lord, the magnificent creature that is Death the Kid. He's. I. I couldn't look away. He's like me, but in anime, more badass, dude, much cuter, equally OCD form. It was so hard to leave him for this. But. I tried. **

**But yeah. I escaped his evil little clutches (with the help of what is generally really shitty Soul Eater slash fics (MOAR NOAHXKID, GUYZ.)) and came back here, wrestled in a world championship against this chapter, AND PRODUCED THIS. Because I **_**will **_** finish this story, if it's the last thing I do! **

**But yeah. It's about to get depressing in here, guys. Brace yourselves.  
**

**Here you go. **

**Hope it's not shit.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own South Park, any of its characters, or any of its locations. I also don't own Taylor Swift or her song. Hell, I don't even like Taylor Swift.  
**

**

* * *

**

_Subject: Mr. Craig Tucker_

_Location: The Underwear Gnomes' Lair._

You know, I'm quite not sure why I let myself exist around other people. I always get this feeling in my gut that I'm, you know, a bad influence, and it's at times like right now that I really think that feeling is right. Sometimes I wonder why I don't just stop existing, but I always answer myself on that one. It's because, fuck you, that's why.

I guess that's why I let myself around other people, despite my dastardly ways. Because I just don't give a fuck. But, really, I think Mr. Tweak might be right in saying that I'm not a good influence for little ol' Tweek. See, Mr. Tweak has always been scared that I'll turn his son into some kind of criminal, and you know, he's probably right about that. And by probably, I mean he is definitely right about that. I mean, this whole situation proves it. I'm a bad egg, through and through.

See, I'm currently in front of "the Gnome's Lair," as Tweek calls it, with the twitchy little devil himself. He's currently pressing himself against the wall, his eyes shifting frantically from side to side. He "Eeks!" but stifles it with a shaking hand, and it just ends up being an awkward gurgle. Tweek's got a burglar's outfit on that he got at Party City. Honestly, that place is quickly becoming his favorite store. We go basically every other day, getting outfits that range from adorable to ridiculous "just in case he needs it." I snort internally at the kids' reasoning, because you know, he's actually right. He really might need all of this stuff one day. For example, it turns out he did need a burglar's outfit after all. When he first tried to take it off the racks at Party City, I had scowled at him, slapped his wrist, and made him put it back. Because really, when's a twitchy little fucker like him going to need something like that? I had grabbed his wrist and started to drag him away, when he dug his heels into the ground resolutely and refused to move. When I turned around to scold him, he just scowled back at me. And then his eyes got all big and watery, and he sniffled a few times, and I had to cave and let him buy it.

And that's why he's wearing a burglar costume right now. He's got a thick rope looped around his arm, a walkie-talking fastened onto his belt, and a fucking pick-axe in his hand. It's probably not the best idea to let a kid who sometimes punches himself in the face by accident hold a sharp, lethal weapon, but who cares. He'll be fine. "Mama, I'm a big boy now," and all that, right?

...Right?

Anyways, it's the middle of the night. Seeing as it's snowing, as it always is here in South Park, the forecast says that it's really fucking cold out. Seriously. I'm shivering in my socks. That's probably because I didn't bring a jacket. But so what? Jacket's are for pussies. And squares.

Yes, I often wear a jacket. I don't count for the pussy and square rule. I'm too cool for that rule. What's it to you? Huh? HUH?

...Shut up. I'm really tired. I get feisty when I'm this tired.

I'm wearing black too, but my outfit isn't nearly as concealing as Tweek's is. Party City is really thorough in making sure their outfits are top-notch. These top-notch outfits also prove to be remarkably good for cold weather.

Tweek's got a long-sleeved black shirt on; I've got a black t-shirt that I sleep in. Tweek's got his black cargo pants with a million little pockets; I've got my black sweat pants that I sleep in. Tweek's got his frazzled hair tucked into a black hat; I've got my hair tucked into...my hair, I guess? My hair is in nothing. It's just my hair. It's black, so I figure I don't really need to wear a stupid hat. And yeah, I sleep in my hair too.

Why so unprepared, you may ask? Well, that's an easily answered question. You see, it's because earlier on this fine night, I heard a rustling at my window. I wasn't asleep or anything- I don't really sleep. Sleep is like jackets. Only for the weak. And you know, the rustling didn't scare me. But when my window started to slowly squeak itself open, I got a little nervous. I may or may not have broken out in sweat. And then, there was a loud thump, a cry of "JESUS CHRIST, I'M GOING TO DIE!" and all my nervousness flew right out the open window. I sat up in bed, hissed at Tweek to go away (though I really just wanted him to come snuggle with me in bed. But shhhh, don't tell him that.) And what did I get in return? Tweek came over to my bed, grabbed my arm without saying a word, and literally dragged me onto the floor. I landed on the ground awkwardly, and just kind of went limp while he dragged me over to the open window, and heaved me up onto the window sill. I got a little suspicious around here, so I let my arms wave around in mild panic, because I could see what was coming. Tweek actively ignored my pleads to not be shoved out the window and then actively shoved me out the window. I landed awkwardly on my stomach, and thanked God that I didn't sleep on the second floor anymore. That could have been really bad. Tweek hopped down after me, and proceeded to drag me over here.

And that's the story of how I got here. Cool story, right?

...

A movement in the corner of my eye pulls me away from my really uninteresting story-thoughts, and it's the kind of sight that would make anyone panic. Can you really tell me _you_ wouldn't be worried if you saw a guy dressed in all black wave around a pick-axe towards a glass window that did not belong to him while his eye twitched psychotically? Because that's what Tweek is doing, and _fuck_, it's making me panic. I'm such a bad influence! Holy Hell!

...Whose house is this anyway? I know it's not mine, so I consider not caring, but I quickly decide against that. If we get caught, I'd be dead. And I like living. It's kind of boring, but I like boring. And things wouldn't be so boring if I went to jail for this, because it would be filled with prison fights and non-consensual butt sex. Non consensual butt sex isn't very boring at all. And my nice, boring life could be ruined by this armed little lunatic.

So I decide to stop him.

Being the tactful guy I am, what I do is shimmy right up to the little guy and poke him in the ribcage with my elbow.

"Tweekers. Hey, hey Tweekers."

Tweek jumps about in a foot in the air and twitches awfully against my elbow, which I quickly withdraw, because I don't like the feeling of someone squirming against my wenis. My penis, sure. I'm a teenage dude. I wouldn' t mind that at all. But my wenis? No way, man. Not a chance in Hell.

The the axe falls from Tweek's hand and plops silently on the floor. Tweek himself spins around really quickly, I gasp, because the kid's got crazy eyes! _Crazy eyes!_

But he looks really surprised to see me standing there harmlessly, my arms hanging awkwardly by my sides. He gives me once-over in shock and blinks a few times. Honestly, I think he forgot I was here. Sigh. Which I guess is nothing new. You see, people often forget I exist. It might be because I kind of act like I don't exist. Often. But I mean, who cares? Not Craig Tucker. Nope. I don't. Not this guy. It's not hurtful. Not even a little bit. Nope.

"GAH- what?" He looks at me curiously, bending down to pick up his axe. I shuffle over and kick it away, and he straightens up to glare at me. 'EXPLAIN,' his eyes cry.

So I try.

"You know, I kinda think that this is probably a bad idea." Ladies and Gentlemen, the eloquent Craig Tucker.

Tweek stares at me in disbelief. His left eye twitches. His lip starts to curl in a snarl, and I can't help but scrunch my nose and 'awwh' at him, because it's cute. Tweekers looks so damn crazy when he gets mad, because his tweeks get even worse, and he gets this terrifying scowl that warps his whole face. He looks out of his fucking mind, but crazy is the new cute, you know.

As soon as I 'awh,' though, he stops growling at me and acts. And by act, I mean that he lets out a really frustrated grunt and flails his hand wildly at me. The appendage smacks my arm, and I frown, because no, it didn't hurt, but it was rude! I stumble back in shock, because Tweek usually isn't a guy for physically violence. He usually just likes to rip out his hair and roll on the ground when he's upset. And really, that's what I'm used to. This whole..._hitting_ thing, though, is wholly unacceptable!

"Hey! Hey," I point at him accusingly, a disapproving look on my face. "That was rude."

Tweek doesn't apologize, like I expect him to. Usually, the kid hates being called rude. His parents always taught him to have manners, and he'd rather die than go against his upbringing of politeness. Instead, his face twists into a horrible scowl, and I flinch. Me, Craig Tucker, master of scowls and angry faces, flinch at this sheer rage. That should tell you something about how inexplicably angry Tweek is.

"A BAD IDEA? JESUS CHRIST A BAD I-IDEA?"

"Uhm...yes?" I'm kind of too scared to answer him fully, about how I think breaking into someone's house is pretty immoral and could get us non-consenual butt sex. I'm too scared to suggest that we just give this whole gnome thing up and go back to my place and have totally consensual butt sex. That sounds good to me, but I'm too damn scared to suggest it.

Tweek glares at me with vicious eyes, and yells, "FUCK YOU, NO, IT'S TH-GAH. THE BEST IDEA I'VE H-H-HA-HAD IN A LONG T-TIME, C-C-CR-CRAIG."

"Uhm." I want to tell him that I thought that the whole concept of going to the zoo was a pretty good idea. I mean, sure, we never actually got there, because Stan Slab-of-Rock Marsh gave me a concussion, but it was a great idea. It was a much better idea than performing a B&E.

His voice quiets to a whisper, and he points at me with a shaking finger. He looks at me accusingly and says, "Y-you don't know what it's like, Crai-Craig. GAH. To be haunted day and ni-ni-night by these g-g-g-goddamn gn-gn-gnomes and be constantly worried about your und-underwear. You do-do-don't understand."

I don't disagree with him, because it's true. I really don't understand, because I really don't worry about gnomes stealing my underwear. Like, I never worry about that. Ever.

"Sure I don't, Tweek," I say, because he looks at me expectantly. What else am I supposed to say? I think suggesting butt sex at this point would end really, really badly.

Tweek looks like he's calmed down, because I've agreed with him on something. His eyes stop being crazy eyes and soften up, and look at me pleadingly. My heart breaks a little bit, but I tell it to man up. "B-b-but do you- GAH. Do you understand why I have to d-do this?" He asks me quietly. I think about agreeing with him again, but I don't want to lie to him. I can pretend for him, but I can't lie for him.

"Uhm. No, not really."

Tweek's eye twitches dangerously again, and I move away a little, because I really don't want to be hit again. The crazy eyes come back, and I really expect him to lunge at me like the violence-loving little psycho like he apparently is, but the kid surprises me. He does not, in fact, tackle me. He doesn't even hit me this time. He instead reaches for his belt, lets his fingers scramble against the leather and different holders, and then finds his target. He plucks his thermos of coffee from his handy-dandy utility belt, takes aim, and chucks it right at my head. And let me tell you something that'll surprise you just as much as it surprises me- Tweek has _excellent_ aim. He's shaky as fuck, but he _always_ hits his target.

So the thermos makes contact. It thuds dully into my head, and rattles my brain around a bit. The lid falls off on contact and I give a girly squeal and find myself drenched in lukewarm coffee. The container itself bounces weakly off of my forehead, landing on the grass to roll itself over to settle next to the discarded pick-axe I kicked away a few paragraphs ago.

I wipe the coffee out of my eyes, and blink away the definitely-not-tears-shut-up. I look weakly up at Tweek, half in disbelief and half in hurt. He just glares at me with those crazy eyes. Somewhere in there, I see a plea for understanding, but I shake my head at it, because I can't understand. I can't not condemn criminal felonies. I just can't. I know I'm a dick, and I know I'm a bad influence, and I know most of the time I just don't give a fuck. But this is taking it to another level. I know that, and Tweek knows that too. He's breathing hard, and he takes in a particularly deep breath, and huffs out, "G-go away, C-C-Craig. Just go."

I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do.

So I just go.

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Leopold "Butters" Stotch._

_Location: The Stotch Household._

I'm flying. There are a bunch of white, fluffies, that is, clouds, all around me and I keep bumpin' into them, but that's all right because they're so cushy that I just bounce off weakly and keep flying. Every time I run into a fluffy, I giggle, because they grow fingers and tickle my sides with feather-light touches. I careen through the fluffies, and cleverly dodge their nimble fingers. A ferret flies by and waves pleasantly. I tell him that his over-coat is missing, and he says, "Maybe tomorrow." I laugh and bid him good day, and when I turn to wave him goodbye, I run into a fluffy. I mush into it, and bounce back softly, and the fluffy rumbles in a threatening manner, and then it explodes. I go spinning off into the air from the blast, and the air around me starts exploding, and I can see Kenny waving down at me from where he's perched on the ferret's back. I try to tell him that the ferret is missing his jacket, but Kenny just grins at me and waves. I try to reach for him, but I'm flying by too fast to grab his lazily waving hand. I start breast-stroking back towards him, when I feel something tugging on my ankle. I look back in a panic, and see that the fluffies are grabbing for me with their long, malicious fingers, and I turn back to Kenny with wide eyes. I am positively _clawing_ for his hand now, but he just keeps waving. I call his name, but I can't hear my voice, because there are bells exploding in my ears. I feel a sense of dread festering in my chest and I do all that I can: I scream.

And wake up.

The doorbell is ringing.

I'm on my couch, and I sit up, and I can feel that my darn couch pillow left a big ol' dent on the side of my face. I glance around quickly, hoping that my mother isn't nearby to scold me for looking stupid. A breath of relief escapes me when I realized I'm home alone. I groan and let myself slip off the couch, starting towards the door shuffling along on my hands and knees, before I stop being silly and stand up and walk like a person. I rub my cheek, because I don't want to look stupid with my couch dent, and I open the door, only to be bounced backwards onto my behind. I yelp as my wrist bends awkwardly from the fall, and I grasp it, because it hurts a whole lot. And it gets worse, because whoever was at the door is now tugging me up by my hurt wrist, and so I start to cry, because really, what would you do?

"Gad, Butters, you're such a pussy."

I rub at my eyes with my not almost-broken wrist and sniffle weakly. "E-Eric?"

Eric rolls his eyes at me and lets go of my wrist and invites himself in. Then he's heading towards my kitchen, leaving me to push my door closed weakly. I follow him in shuffled steps, cradling my wrist to my chest. "Who else would it be?" He asks as he reaches my fridge and begins rummaging. I think about stopping him, but I don't think I could if I tried. Eric's got a notorious appetite, you know. He finds the apple pie I baked earlier today and pulls it out, bringing my carton of milk with him.

I shrug uselessly at his question and seat myself at my table. "Well, shucks, I don't know."

"Exactly," Eric says, taking a gulp straight from the carton before taking a large bite of pie. He starts talking mid-chew, bits and pieces of my creation flinging themselves onto the floor I cleaned myself. I frown internally. "Who would come and visit _you_?"

'Pip,' I say to myself. 'Kenny. You.'

"I don't know," I say out loud.

"Exactly," Eric says again, swallowing loudly before he burps, pats his stomach, and stands up. He looks around. He burps again. I frown, because that's gross. He stands there for a minute, his gaze turning increasingly disinterested, and finally, he turns to me with a lazily raised brow.

"Well, what do you want to do?"

"U-uhm," I say, standing up myself. "W-well, geez, I don't know, Eric."

Eric frowns at me and sighs. "You're so gay, Butters." I don't know what to say to that, so I say nothing. Eric gives me a God-you're-dumb-look, and I shrug uselessly, and he says, "Well, what were you doing before I got heyah?"

"Sleepin'," I say honestly.

"That's boring."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Eric sighs heavily, and I feel bad for being such a boring friend. It's not _my_ fault that he's used to going to Peru and starting Christian rock bands. It's really not! But I say I'm sorry again, and Eric just waves me off irritably. "Well, what did you do _before_ you slept?"

I tap my chin. Let's seeeeee. My mind rewinds itself to the morning."Well, first thing I did was, I woke up. And then my mom came up and got all mad at me for sleeping in so late, so then I had to apologize and then she made me-"

"I don't need to hear your whole fucking day, Butters. Jesus Christ. Just tell me what you did right before you went to sleep." Eric has started glaring at me, which makes me really uncomfortable, and when I get really uncomfortable, I always find it hard to talk. So I regress into an awkward ball of stuttering, and Eric glares daggers, and grabs my wrist. I flinch back, because Eric grabbing for you would sure make _you _nervous. I pull back weakly, but resistance is futile. I know it, and he knows it. He gives me an almost feral smile, and a shiver shoots its way down my spine. He starts tugging me out of the kitchen, heading for the stairs.

"E-E-Eric, where are you going?" I squeak, tripping over my own feet. Eric keeps dragging me up, despite the fact that I've completely lost my balance and am now laying on my back as I thump up the stairs.

"We are going to play a game, Butters," Eric says over his shoulder, kicking my bedroom door open and heaving me up onto my bed. I bounce once weakly, staring at him with wide frightened eyes. Gee, Eric's grin is really starting to scare me.

"W-What kind of game?"

Eric says nothing. His smile is absolutely wicked. He cracks his knuckles, kicks my door closed, and-

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Stanley Marsh_

_Location: The playground by Tom's Rhinoplasty_

Kyle's shaking like a leaf in the wind, so I awkwardly wrap an arm around his shoulders, to try to, you know, help a guy out. But Kyle just stiffens, shrugs my arm off, and straightens his spine to stand a little taller. He lifts his chin and stares ahead, determined. I sigh and let my arm drop dejectedly to my side. Kyle lets his glance shift to me, and his gaze is serious. He's still shaking like Tweek on a bad day.

"Kyle," I say. "You really don't have to do this, dude. Let's just go back to my house and play some Guitar Hero."

We're at the playground by Tom's Rhinoplasty, waiting for Wendy to arrive, in case you're wondering. We're waiting for Wendy to show up. So she can fight Kyle. Is it just me, or is there something wrong with that sentence? I mean, after all, through all the years Wendy and I dated, Kyle was the friend of mine that she got along with the best. They're both wildly intelligent and incredibly reasonable- they could talk for hours about how stupid Kenny and Cartman and I were for not knowing what the String Theory was. I mean, sure, it got pretty annoying, to constantly be called stupid, but I was just glad they were getting along to really care. So what in the world could have prompted Wendy to lose all her incredible reason to do something like this?

There's already a crowd gathered around, their talk nothing but a rumbling noise in the background. The rumbling gets distinctively louder when Kyle and I approach. They're a sea of buzzing bees, whispering and giggling to each other, hugging, pushing, laughing. They're making me nervous. A voice cries out above the rest, yelling, "Bids! Place your bids!" I gag on my spit when I realize that the voice belongs to Kenny, who's swerving through the crowds with a box hanging from a brightly colored strap around his neck. He stops by Clyde and Token, taking their money, placing it in the box, and giving them a slip in exchange. He gives them both a big grin, claps Token on the arm in a gesture of camaraderie, and goes on his merry way. After glaring a hole in the back of his head for a good forty-seven seconds, Kenny senses my presence and spins around on his heel. He sees me staring at him, and stops in his yelling to give me a wolfish grin and a wink. He points the box, mouths "Makin' bank," and gives me the thumbs up. I gape at his big, stupid head as he disappears into the crowds once again. Some best friend he turns out to be.

"Yes, I do, Stan."

Kyle's voice drags my attention back to him. I try to catch his eyes, but he's resolutely not looking at me- his eyes are searching the crowd in...what is that, fear? Anxiety? Dread? Whatever it is, his eyes are absolutely brimming over with it as they search the crowd frantically. Presumably for Wendy. Kyle's not the guy for confrontation. Wendy's not the gal to confront.

"I have to fight for you," he says in a hushed voice.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. "No, dude, you really don't. C'mon, Kyle, this is stupid. Let's go home-"

Kyle suddenly turns on me, his hands grasping my shoulders. I let out a kind of girly yelp as his long fingers happily bruise my arm while nicely manicured nails bury themselves into the skin. I wince weakly at the intense expression pervading his face. All that anxiety is gone, replaced with utter and complete determination. He's stopped trembling, his jaw set and his eyes as hard as steel.

"No, Stan. I _have_ to fight for you. I can't lose you to Wendy. Not again. Not _ever_ again." His eyes soften, and his fingers dislodge themselves, and his hands slide up to my face. His fingers swipe gently at the skin underneath my eyes, and I shudder violently and close my eyes. This is how it should be. Just me and Kyle. No fighting, no worries, no anything. Just us.

I regain my composure as the strokes stop, and I open my eyes to see Kyle drop his arms fall weakly to his sides. His eyes have moved to the ground, watching in vacant interest as his shoes scuffle themselves around in the dust. He looks scared. He looks so damn scared.

I don't blame him, though. Wendy can be really scary when she's mad.

I sigh heavily and grab his wrist, flipping it over and kissing the tender skin there. He melts at the touch, and lets out a loud exhale through his nose. I can feel his pulse beneath my lips. An eternity passes, and I press a last kiss to the skin before I pull away enough to whisper, "You never lost me, Kyle. You never will." I see his feet stop moving, the dust swirling in the air and leaving a nice thin layer of dirt on his shoes. I pull away and look up at him, and all I see is that horrible, sad smile. I feel like I've been punched in the heart.

There's a rustling, and then the smile is gone from Kyle's face faster than you can say "banana." The crowd stops it's dull roar. Kenny stops yelling. Kyle stops breathing. And then a voice splits the air. It's cold and is as hard as steel and it's _angry. _

"Broflovski," it says.

Kyle's a pale guy, but it looks like he's literally been drained of all color when he hears his name said like that. His body goes rigid, his arm tumbling from my slack fingers like a thousand-pound weight. I do the only thing I can at this point- I give him a swift kiss on the cheek, pat him awkwardly on the shoulder, and step the fuck away.

The crowd starts to part, and there's Wendy, stalking towards us, her hands balled at her sides. Bebe and Kenny trail behind; Bebe with water and a towel, Kenny with a little flag that says "Go Wendy!" on it. I glare disapprovingly at him, and he shrugs weakly at me, gesturing to Wendy, who cracks her knuckles. The crack echoes. Kyle looks like he might throw up. But he throws his shoulders back, tucks his fearful face into his back pocket, and steps forward, meeting Wendy halfway in the middle of the circle of spectators.

It's deathly quiet. I can hear the crickets chirping. A tumbleweed rolls by. And Wendy leans forward, grabbing Kyle by the front of his shirt, and pulling him close. She puts her lips to his ear, and from my spot not far from them, I can hear what she says.

"Sorry, Kyle," she says. "I like you. I really, really do. You're a smart boy. But I have to do this."

Kyle's eyes widen slightly as he sees an opening for reason. "But _why_, Wendy? You know that violence doesn't solve anything! I don't even know why you want to kick my ass!"

Wendy sighs and says, "I don't _want_ to, Kyle, but I have to. I actually support you and Stan, but I have a reputation to uphold. People _expect_ me to kick your ass for turning my boyfriend gay."

Kyle looks indignant and tries to pull away, but Wendy's got an iron grip on his shirt. "_Excuse me? _I'll have you know, Wendy, that Stan asked _me_ out. I didn't do anything!"

"I know!" Wendy says desperately. She looks bummed that her explanation isn't good enough for Kyle to stand by passively and let her kick his ass. "But people are expecting me to do this. I have to keep up my image."

Kyle looks disgusted, and this time, succeeds in pulling away. He shakes his head sadly and says, in that awful disappointed voice that makes _everyone_ feel bad, "Didn't think you'd be one to give in to peer pressure, Wendy." She looks devastated for a moment, before the cold, condescending look from before takes back over as she realizes she's still in front of a crowd.

"Enough talk," Wendy says, cracking her neck. Kyle winces. "Let's do this."

She cracks her knuckles and starts bouncing on the balls of her feet, her face set in a determined frown. Kyle stands there awkwardly, his arms dangling at his sides. He looks at me helplessly, and I shrug and sort of wave him towards her. I give him the thumbs up to try to encourage him, but he just glares at me, and turns his attention back to Wendy.

The moment he turns his head, his face gets a personal introduction to Wendy's fist. The crowd bursts into cheers, and Wendy hops away as Kyle staggers back, reaching for his face in disbelief.

"Jesus _Christ! _Ouch! Fuck!"

He looks up at Wendy, and I can tell that he really didn't expect her to hit him. She looks kind of apologetic, but then she hops forward again, and punches him in the ribcage. Kyle doubles over and coughs weakly, yelling, "What the _fuck_, Wendy?" Wendy doesn't answer. She circles him once, while he tries standing up straight again, and pauses for a minute, as if giving him a chance to get a punch in. Kyle just glares at her, though. So she sighs heavily, draws her fist back, and punches him square in the face.

Kyle goes down like a rock. I rush forward to try and catch him before he hits the ground, but I fail to do so, so he hits the ground. Dust erupts up from under him and gets in my eyes. I cough and rub it away, and kneel down beside him, pulling his head into my lap. He looks up at me with bleary eyes, his nose bleeding badly and his lip is split down the middle. "S-Stan? I...I can see Mr. Hankey, Stan. Mr. Hankey and his whole family are here!" I pat his forehead in an attempt at consolation, and his head just lolls to the side, and he's out like a light.

I look up at Wendy and stare at her in disbelief. She's looking down at Kyle with a face of regret, and she looks up at me, her mouth half-open to say something, when the crowd begins to surround her.

"Wendy! Wendy!" They chant. She tries to fight her way through to us, but they grab her and lift her onto their shoulders. She mouths something at me, but I don't really care what it is, because man, fuck her. As the crowd gets smaller and smaller, Kenny walks by and pats me on the head.

"Tough luck, Stan."

I slap his hand away and glare at him, and he puts up his hands in surrender and laughs nervously, and then runs away.

Goddamn redneck.

Goddamn Wendy.

Goddamn, I have to get Kyle home.

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Eric Cartman._

_Location: The Stotch Household._

If there's one thing I hate- and there's not just one thing. There's really not. At all. There are about a billion.- it's poor people. Poor people, you see, don't do anything but get in the way. They lay around the streets, blocking your path with their smelly, poor selves, rattling cans in your face for money. They disgust me. Either they live in the streets, or they live in something they call a home, but we all know that it's not a home at all. It's just a stinky, dirty, damp shack. There are a lot of poor people in South Park like that. Like Kenneh. Kenneh Fucking McCormick. Gad, I hate that guy.

Why do I hate him, you may ask? Well, even if you didn't ask, I'm going to tell you anyways, so shut the fuck up and listen. See, I hate Kenneh McCormick for four reasons. Four completely legitimate reasons, that you would totally get if you weren't a dumbass.

Reason one: Kenneh is poor.

Reason two: Kenneh is friends with Kahl. On a side note, I also hate that guy. I hate Kahl so. Fucking. Much. That dirty fucking Jew with his dirty fucking people. Seriously, though, if I could get Kahl alone in a room without his doting boy toy following him I would just-

Ahem. Excuse me. That stupid Jewrat always gets me carried away. So. Where was I? Oh yes. Kenneh.

Reason three: Kenneh is poor. He's _so fucking poor._ Like seriously, his family eats Pop-tarts for dinner. Kenneh's only blanket has like, fifty different holes in it. He masturbates to Playboy magazines he finds in the dumpsters outside of porn shops. Don't ask me how I know that. Really, you don't want to know the answer.

And reason four: Butters likes Kenneh. _Butters_, that goddamn pussy who somehow managed to seduce me with his stupid big, blue eyes and his stupid, retarded optimism, likes _Kenneh_, that poor Jew-loving asshole. And see, that doesn't work for my dynamics.

But tonight is a good night. It has to be. I mean, I got bored as Hell at my house, because all there was to do was to watch T.V., and the only thing on T.V. was a bunch of reruns of Terrence and Phillip. My stupid mother was upstairs with the plumber, being the stupid slut she is, so I couldn't go whine at her to entertain me. I'd rather set myself on fire than get forty-feet within her bedroom, thank you very much. I considered calling Stan, but I figured he'd be with Kahl, and as I said before, I really fucking hate that guy. And therefore, by default, I really fucking hate Stan. Which I wouldn't, if he weren't Kahl's best friend. See, I think Stan is an okay guy. He's kind of a pussy, and by kind of a pussy I mean is a super big pussy, but he's pretty cool to hang out with. I would never tell him that, though. And you wouldn't tell him that either. Because I would track you down and rip your face off and use it to wipe my ass, so you better not.

So anyway. Calling Stan was off. I hate Kenneh, so that was a no-no. And I hate pretty much everyone else in this town too, so I decided to go to the person I hate the least. The person I actually kind of actually like. And so off to Butters' it was.

When I got there, I managed to get the little guy up the stairs, in his bedroom, on his bed, and now I'm all ready to do, you know, what two people on a bed in a closed bedroom in an empty house would usually do, when Butters jumps up from the bed, laughs nervously, and says, "Wanna play Hello Kitty Adventure Island, Eric? It's an awful lot of fun, and I just remembered that's what I was doing before I fell asleep."

I stare at him with a blank face as he rubs his knuckles together awkwardly, and when I don't say anything else, he takes that as a yes and starts scurrying about, getting his game system plugged in. I sit on the bed passively, watching his ass as he bends over to pick up the controllers and stuff, and when he approaches me to hand me one of the controllers, I just sigh, rub my forehead, and say. "Dear Lord, Butters, you are so gay."

"T-that's what they say, Eric," he says honestly, settling back on the bed next to me, his eyes intent upon the screen. I stare at him for a long moment, watching his pale eyelashes flutter against his cheek, before following his gaze to the television. I immediately flinch away.

The screen is bright pink, bubbly white lettering yelling, "HELLO KITTY: ADVENTURE ISLAND!"Below stands that stupid cat, waving its arm at me, staring at me with those souless black eyes. How the hell is Butters not scared by that face? It's...it's _demonic_. Those beady little eyes are trying to steal my soul! Holy crap, you guys! Calm down, Cartman, calm down. It's just a stupid cat on a stupid game. It can't get your soul. But just as these thoughts finish calming me down, I look back to the screen to see Hello Kitty, its little non-descript arm pointing right at me, its eyes narrowed in warning. Its eyes. Which are glowing red. "_I'll get you, Eric Cartman, and your little blondie too!"_ it hisses.

I drop the controller in fright, scrambling as far back on the bed as I can get before I fall off the other side. Butters is right there next to me, tugging my arm in alarm, his big blue eyes widened in panic.

"Eric! Gee, Eric, are you all right?"

"Turn it off!" I scream, scrambling for under Butters' bed. "Turn it off! Holy crap, I swear to God, Butters, turn it off or I'll rip your stuff animals to shreds and make you eat them!"

Butters looks positively horrified and is on his feet in a hot second. He scrambles back across the bed and all but rips the game out of the console, throwing it to the corner of the room, where it lays forlornly, a blurred picture of Hello Kitty's face staring out at me with it's wide, demon eyes. I shiver and flip it the bird. Butters is standing there, his eyes swelled with tears of confusion and fright, and he's staring at me in hopes for an explanation. "E-Eric...," he says in a shaky voice. "Eric, are you okay?"

Well, shit, man. Now I went and made myself look stupid. You can recover from this, Cartman. Come on, you can recover. Act cool.

"Psh," I say, getting up and brushing myself off. "Of course I'm okay. Don't be stupid, Butters."

"I'm sorry," he says automatically. I wince internally at how easily he shouldered the blame. "Y-you just seemed really scared." He stops staring at me to look at the ground. To hide the fact that he's started to cry. Goddammit.

Awh, look what you've done now, Cartman. You've made the kid go and cry. Jesus Christ. Okay, okay, calm down. Just. Just apologize to him or something. Give him a lollipop. Or some Cheesey Poofs. Hell, I don't know, but do something!

"Shut up," I say. I sigh to myself, because that wasn't very comforting of me at all. "I wasn't scared. I just. Don't like cats." I'm a terrible liar. I'm a terrible, terrible liar when it really counts.

"You do?" he looks up. He's stopped crying, but his eyes are so red and puffy. "B-but don't you have a cat?"

"No." I'm sorry, Mr. Kitty, but I have to keep up appearances.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

There's a long silence, and I sigh again, and climb back on the bed. I awkwardly pat the spot next to me, and when Butters does nothing but stand there and stare at me in surprise, I just glare at him, point forcefully at the bed, and growl. He obediently shuffles over and sits down, his ass almost falling off the bed because he's sitting so close to the edge. He looks wildly uncomfortable. I smirk. Time to charm, Cartman.

"Hey Butters?"

"Mhm?"

"Thank you for caring."

His eyes shoot to me, filled with shock. I kind of want to punch him in the face. I mean, why is he so surprised? I can be sensitive. I can be...nice. Kind of. Sometimes. Depends on the weather.

...

Oh, who the fuck am I kidding. I'm an asshole, but who fucking cares.

Butters opens his mouth. He closes it again. He opens it. Closes it. Opens it, starts to form a word, makes a sound and-

"_We were both young when I first saw you. I closed my eyes and the flashback starts: you're standing there. On a balcony in summer air..._"

Music starts pouring through the seams in the closed window, and Butters is on his feet in an instant, whatever probably kind and genuine thing he was going to say to me gone from his mind forever. I scowl and follow him to the window, where he's staring out with the biggest damn smile I've ever seen on anyone spread across his face. I scowl harder, because _I've_ never gotten him to smile that big. What the fuck could make him that damn happy?

And when I look out the window too, I get my answer. Standing underneath Butters' now open window, with a radio raised above his head and a cocky smirk plastered across his face, stands Kenneh McCormick, singing at the top of his lungs to that faggy Taylor Swift song. He's got a shirt on that's pink with bold, white lettering on it, a mimic of the Hello Kitty Island Adventure font, that says, "I Love Leopold." And Butters is just fucking _ecstatic_ about it. He's got this huge, sappy smile all over his face and he's leaning on one elbow, his face rested in his hand, as he sighs dreamily.

Kenneh, that conniving little _asswipe!_ Goddammit!

Oh, but will he _pay_ for _this._ He will pay with his goddamn life, because I _know_ that that poor bastard can't afford to pay with anything else. To ruin my moment with Butters. That poor piece of shit will _pay._

And I know just the way to get payback.

"Hey. Hey, Butters."

Butters doesn't even register that I'm here. Shit, this is worse than I thought.

"Butters. Heeeey, Butterssssss." I've taken on my whiny voice that I use on my mom when she tries to keep me from eating more Cheesey Poofs. "Buttersssss." Damn, the kid can't hear me. He can't hear anything but that stupid hobos' stupid voice harmonizing with Taylor Swift's stupid song. So what I do is, I knock his elbow over, letting his head fall to smack into the window sill. He jerks out of his reverie to turn to me, and go, "Oh, sorry, Eric. I didn't see you there." He's clutching his nose and is staring at me distractedly, his eyes flickering back to his lawn outside where Kenneh has set down his radio and has started to dance. That fucker.

"Hey, Butters, want to see something totally sweet?"

"Uhm, not right now, really, Eric..." He starts to turn back to the window, so I grab him by the shoulders and spin him around. Outside, Kenneh starts to moonwalk.

"No, I promise, dude. It's so cool. It'll only take a second." Butters' face looks torn, and then, like the polite little nugget I always knew he was, he says, "Okay, Eric. But only a second."

Got him.

I dig through my pocket, keeping one hand on Butters' shoulder to make sure he doesn't turn back to Kenneh, who tries to do a handstand and ends up rolling into the bushes nearby. I finally manage to fish out my phone, quickly flipping through the pictures until I find the right one. The one I took of Kenny and Kyle swapping spit in the park. I grin maniacally. I turn the screen to Butters, who tears his eyes from their sidelong glance of watching Kenneh pick twigs out of hair, to stare at the screen. The happy twinkle that was there about .5 seconds ago? Gone. Gonegonedelightfullygone. It's replaced with a dull look of horror. Of disgust. Of disbelief. Was that a speck of hatred I just saw?

I drop my hand from his shoulder to let him turn to the window and glare out of it. Kenneh apparently has caught his eye, because his stupid dancing has stopped, and he's turned the radio off. I take this time to lazily flick through my contacts until I reach Stan and send him a copy of the picture with a cute little heart underneath it. Man, am I an asshole or what.

"What's wrong, Butters?" He calls up, his face contorted into a look of worry. It's not like Butters to glare.

There's a long pause, and Kenneh opens his mouth again to say something, but Butters manages to choke out. "Go away, Kenny. Just go away."

"Wait, what? Butters, what are you-"

"**Go away. **Go make out with Kyle. Go have sex with Thomas. Go do whatever you want, just go away."

"Butters, what the shit are you talking about?"

"You know what? F-fu-fuck you, Kenny!"

I burst out laughing. Butters slaps a hand over his mouth in shock. Kenneh gasps, drawing his lip between his teeth. He bites down so hard that it draws blood. He looks so hurt. I've rarely been happier.

Kenneh looks around, like he's not sure if this is real or if it's a dream. He looks up at Butters, who glares right back. The second Kenneh looks away, to stare at the ground, Butters' scowl falters in uncertainly. It rights itself the next time Kenneh looks up. When it seems like Butters really has nothing else to say- really, how could he follow _that_ up?- then Kenneh decides to leave. He awkwardly turns and starts to stumble away, his shoulders hunched around his ears. Those shoulders have started to shake, racked with sobs. Hell, Butters himself has started to cry. Which is something I expected him to do, so I'm prepared. Butters stands at the window, watching Kenneh go with this torn look on his face, making no attempt to stop the tears falling from his eyes, and it's the perfect time for Mr. Comfort to come in with a sly around around his shoulders and a couple tissues in his hand.

Butters at first flinches at my touch, but after a few seconds, changes his mind, and burries his face into the crook of my neck, and cries. Kenneh keeps stumbling along, like a toddler, his radio forgotten on the Stotches' lawn.

Hobo-boy: 0.

Cartman: 1.

Victory!

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Stanley Marsh_

_Location: The Broflovski Household_

Kyle is a skinny guy. You can ask anybody and they'll totally say, "Oh, Kyle? That skinny motherfucker? Yeah, he's totally skinny. Totally." He looks like he weighs literally nothing and he's got bony knees and you can see his ribs when he has no shirt on. His elbows could kill someone with how sharp they are. I sometimes keep my arm around him on windy days to make sure he doesn't blow away. Like, I don't know if I can emphasize how tiny Kyle is. If he turned sideways, he'd disappear. He can step between 's made of nothing. Nothing. Or he looks like it anyways.

So how is it, with how tiny, tiny his physique appears, that he's so goddamn heavy?

See, I was being the nice, courteous boyfriend I am and was scraping him off the gravel Wendy splattered him onto earlier today, and realized that I should probably get him home before his mother started to ask questions. She's going to ask questions, regardless, because Kyle's face is swelling at an alarming rate, but whatever. I'm a nice boyfriend. Shut up. So I threw his limp arm around my neck, grabbed hold of one part of that bony ribcage, slipped my free arm underneath those twiggy little legs, and lifted with minimal strength, only to realize that it was not lifting Kyle off the ground. In fact, his body was basically pinning my arms to the ground, which kind of hurt. So I heaved harder, and being the quarterback I am, did manage to lift him. With my muscles straining. And my breath coming out in labored gasps. W-What the fuck? It took a great deal of effort to make it to my car, and even more effort to toss the kid in the back. His only response to all of this strain on my part was a contented, subconscious sigh.

And now I'm faced with the unappealing task of getting him from the back of my car, up his doorsteps, through his living room, up his stairs, down his hallway, into his room, and tucked nice-and-neat into his bed.

Dear Jesus, it's me, Stan. Please let Kyle wake up before I have to do that long laundry list of tasks. He is secretly a fat person. Amen. I wait in earnest for a moment, really hoping that for once, Jesus would answer me. Alas, there is no answer. Goddammit, Jesus, could you just for once answer my prayers? Like, seriously. How many times have I prayed to you? Huh? HUH? Jesus resolutely does not answer to this either. I momentarily consider flipping the heavens the bird, but then chastise myself, because really, I might regret that later. That might turn Jesus off helping me _forever_. And you know, I might really need him one day. And you know, maybe on that one day, he actually will answer me.

I sigh and resign myself to the task, opening the back door and reaching in to grab the deceivingly thin lump lying stretched across the seats. Kyle groans unconsciously as I haul him forward with pain-staking slowness, whining as my arms start to strain. Shut up, weakling arms. We haven't even picked him all the way up. Stop being so goddamn weak! When calling them pussies doesn't help, I try the encouraging approach. Come on, arms. You can do it! I believe in you with all my heart! There's nothing you can't do!

This motivational speech did nothing for my arms, nor did it lessen Kyle's overbearing weight. But I set my face in determination and give him a mighty tug, sending us both flying backwards. He lands painfully on my chest, "nomnomnom"ing in his sleep as he snuggles into my chest. I gasp pathetically and try to weakly push him off. He groans and lets himself slide off my torso to lay on his side next to me, curling into my side with a content sigh. Without his heavy self directly blocking my airflow, you know, this is kind of nice. I start to smile softly, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and that soft smile spreads into a wide, dorky grin. And that grin happily rests on my face up until I hear an awkward "Ahem," from somewhere I above me. I rip my eyes away from Kyle's fluffy hair to look above me, and there stands Ike, an eyebrow raised and his arms crossed.

"Having fun, Stanley?"

I laugh and nod like a dumbass, because truthfully, I am. I am having so much fun cuddling with Kyle. He's always kind of shy and weird about me touching him, so we never cuddle. Which makes this like a six-flags fun experience. Ike sighs and rubs a hand over his face, tells me a dumbass (which as you know, I already know), and then notices Kyle's face. He gapes at me for a second, gesturing wildly at his brother's beat-up face and his eyes just cry out for an explanation. I think he's afraid that I did it. That I'm secretly an abusive boyfriend. A wife beater. A criminal. This actually makes me laugh, though, because if I'm a wife beater, then Kyle is totally the woman in this relationship. I wear the pants here, suckaaa.

But Ike is still looking at me like I'me some kind of criminal, so I shrug at him and offer a weak, "He bumped into a door frame," as a defense, because I honestly don't think Kyle would appreciate me telling his little brother that he got beat up by a girl, by my ex-girlfriend, in front of the whole school for being gay. Like, Kyle would probably kick my ass for that. Not that he could. But he might sit on me or something, and dude, that could totally kill me. He'd crush my ribcage with his ass, which is not cool. Not cool at all. So I keep my lips shut about the whole getting-beat-up-by-a-girl part.

I can tell that Ike doesn't buy it, though. In fact, he looks even more suspicious about me being a wife beater, which is kind of bad. He could easily tell Mrs. Broflovski not to let Kyle hang out with me because I like to treat him like a punching bag, and Mrs. Broflovski would happily react by locking Kyle in his room and leading an angry crusade against me. And once Mrs. Broflovski goes on a crusade, nothing can stop her, man.

I try to keep my resolve steady, I really do. But Ike is staring me down because he knows I'm lying, and Ike has this really, really cold stare. It makes you feel like he can read your mind. Like he just burrows into your head and then proceeds to lazily flick through the different mixed piles of truths and lies and picks out which is which for himself. It's really terrifying, let me tell you. So we have a staring contest that goes on for a good two minutes. But I waver. Ike continues to browse through my mental files. My eyes start to spaz. Ike sits on a mental couch and gets himself a cup of mental coffee to continue his work. I break out in sweat. The corner of Ike's lips tug upwards in a smirk, and that's what does me in. I blink wildly and he lets himself out the front door of my brain, and the truth comes spilling out of my mouth like my life depends on it.

"Kyle got beat up by a girl."

Ike's smirk turns positively gleeful, his eyes lighting up to match his smile. He 'nuh-uhs" at me, and when I shrug uselessly, he breaks down laughing.

"By who?"

"Wendy."

Ike "oooohs," and nods understandingly before stepping forward and grabbing one of his brother's arms. He gives a mighty tug and somehow manages to pull Kyle up off the ground. He drapes his brother's limp arm around his shoulders, and the weary look on his face tells me that this isn't the first time he's had to do something like this. When I do nothing but stare up at him in awe, he frowns tiredly at me and says, "Stan, can you, uhm Idon'tknow, _help_? As I'm sure you've realized, Kyle isn't really the lightest of all maidens."

I nod dumbly and get on my feet, grabbing Kyle's limp wrist and tugging it across my shoulders. Ike huffs and nods in approval, heading towards the front door with Kyle dragging between us. Kyle just mutters something in his sleep and lets his head loll about onto my shoulder. I start grinning like a total doofus again, and Ike looks over and shoots me an annoyed glare when I start becoming less concerned with dragging and more concerned with resting my head on top of Kyle's jewfro.

It's only after another fifteen minutes of hard, sweaty, irritation-lined labor is it that we make it to Kyle's room. Ike and I look at each other and give the other a definitive nod and use a combined use of super-strength (hey, I haven't done football all this time for nothin') to heave Kyle's limp body onto his bed. Kyle just smacks his lips contentedly and rolls onto his side and snuggles his head into the covers.

Ike wipes his hands together proudly, like he's just created something amazing, and gives a nod of acknowledgment to me before turning on his heel and walking out the door without another word. I nod back at him and then give him a mock salute, before turning to the bed. Kyle looks a lot better now that he's not lying in dirt, but he's still looking pretty haggard. His lip is bleeding and one of his eyes is starting to get a light purple circle around it. I bite my lip, because, really, this is partially my fault. I mean. I could have dragged him away from that fight, right? I knew Wendy was going to destroy him. For one, Kyle is a gentleman. He would never hit a girl, let alone do a number on one like Wendy did on him. And on top of that, Wendy is really damn strong. Like. She's small and delicate, sure, but she's carrying mega-guns under that light, downy, purple sweater, let me tell you.

I drop to my knees at the edge of the bed and settle myself there, lifting a hand to run it lightly through Kyle's curls. They're dusty and tangled from sweat and the sheer force of Wendy's punches, but I love touching them anyways. I love touching _Kyle_.

He groans and leans into my touch, his eyes fluttering wildly beneath the lids. He's trying to garner the energy to open them, but it's a big battle for the little guy. He did just get punched with force that's equivalent to that of an eight-wheeler. It takes him about thirty seconds to pry his lids open, but he does it, and the next thing I see is a darling pair of hazy green eyes gazing up at me. I give him my stupid doofus smile and he smiles weakly back at me, his eyes clearing up in recognition. One is significantly smaller than the other because of his forming black eye, but whatever, dude. He seems all right.

"Hey," I say through my toothy grin.

"Hey," he says back in a cloudy voice. I guess some of that dust found its way down his throat and settled happily in his lungs, because he gives a few mighty coughs before he smacks his lips and strains himself to sit up. I almost reach out and help him, but then remind myself that Kyle's not some damsel in distress. Yes, he got beat up by a girl, but he's a bro. He can handle things himself, generally.

Once he's got himself up into a sitting position, thanks to two shaky, pale little arms, he blinks his eyes a few times and then hesitantly reaches out and grabs me around the shoulders, pulling me into his chest. My nose bumps awkwardly into his collarbone.

"I'm sorry, Stan. I'm a stupid jerk." His voice is muffled in my hair, and his breath makes my scalp sweaty.

I laugh heartily into his skin and inhale that Kyle scent. "Yeah, you are. A stupid jerk who got beat up by a girl."

His chest convulses in a laugh that gets lost in my hair, and he shakes his head. "You're right. I'm a loser, dude."

"Nah," I reply, pulling away to look at his face. "You're all right."

He just grins back, and for once, I'm not the only one with a stupid doofus grin on my face. He gives me a swift peck on the lips and I pull away to let him get up on legs that aren't quite steady. He stumbles once he's up, but pushes away my helping arms stubbornly, tottering over to his closet to get some clean clothes. I can't help but smile affectionately at his wobbly figure, and take his seat on his bed while he changes. I rap my fingers on the top of his bed sheet before digging through my pocket, which buzzes at me to tell me I have a text.

The text is from Cartman.

It's a picture message.

I flip it open.

And let it fall to the floor.

I'm up and out of that fucking room in a hot second, with Kyle's voice crying out in alarm after me. I hop down the stairs, two at a time. Kyle's worried little feet patter behind me. Ike looks up from his spot in the couch in half-interest, but I'm done.

I'm out.

I make it out the door before Kyle catches up to me, but he's got longer legs than me and manages to catch me right when I have my hand on the door of my car.

"Stan! W-What the Hell is wrong with you, dude?" I spin around to take a look at him. At the person I thought I could spend the rest of my life with, as corny as that sounds. The person I couldn't have been more wrong about. He's shirtless because he didn't finish changing and his thin little chest is heaving from exhaustion. His eye is swollen closed, and the other is staring at me, pissed off and confused. In his tiny, delicate hand is my phone, the evidence of his falseness still glowing on the screen. I guess he hasn't looked at it yet.

"What's wrong with me?" I don't know how I can keep my voice so controlled, but all the better. I don't want to sound weak. Not now. Not in front of him. He's been laughing at me this whole time. He and that fucking poor kid. Cartman was right.

My two best friends have done me a great disservice.

I take my hand off the car door to shove a finger into his bare chest. His skin is warm and inviting, but I know it's tainted.

"What's wrong with _me, _Kyle? What the Hell is wrong with _you_? I. I can't fucking believe you would. And I thought..." I'm so angry, the words can't make it out. Kyle looks even more pissed off at that, and he slaps my accusing finger away, his face turning from worried to flat out angry. He turns as red as his hair.

"Make some fucking sense, Stan. You're being stupid. What's wrong."

His voice is so clear and strong, it's like he doesn't even know what he did.

"Just look at the phone, Kyle. Jesus Christ, _I'm _being stupid."

Kyle's brows furrow and he looks down at the phone. I don't want to hear whatever excuse he's bound to fabricate, so I climb into my car, and start my engine. Kyle looks up at me, all anger in his face gone. He just looks distraught and panicked. He makes out a "Wha-" but I'm already gone.

Damn, am I gone.

The drive back to my house is quiet. I try not to think about anything but driving. It's dark and the streets are slick with ice and I forgot my glasses at home. Yes, I wear glasses. Only to drive, though. Kyle and Kenny drift somewhere in the back of my head, and anger keeps clouding my vision with redredred, and I try to shake it away so I can just get the fuck home.

But I can't.

My mind gets caught up in imaging what I'll do to Kenny if I see his scrawny little face around that I don't notice my car swerve onto the sidewalk until I feel a series of bumps. A bump up onto the curb from the street. A bump up onto the sidewalk from the curb. A bump over something on the sidewalk, God knows what. A bump off the thing onto the sidewalk. A bump off the sidewalk onto the curb. A bump off the curb onto the street.

I keep going.

It was probably a rock.

A mailbox.

A dog.

A raccoon.

A homeless guy.

I keep going, because I don't care.

Because Kyle's no better than the rest of 'em.

And I've been so wrong this whole time.

* * *

_Subject: Mr. Leopold "Butters" Stotch_

_Location: The Stotch Household_

Everything goes in slow motion. One minute, Kenny's walking away from my house, his hands by his side and his stereo lying, dejected, on my lawn. The next, Eric's holding me to his chest and Kenny is on the ground and the car is speeding away and the stereo is in the same place it was before, but this time around, it's wrong. Goodness, is it wrong.

I hadn't taken my eyes off him after I saw it. After I saw the picture. I had turned to cry into Eric's neck, but I hadn't stopped looking at him. He looked so darn sad that I couldn't look away, and there was something in my head that kept drawing my gaze over to his retreating figure.

I didn't really want him to go.

And now he's lying in a broken heap on the sidewalk, and the car is gone. It looked vaguely familiar, but I can't focus on where I've seen it before.

I don't realize I'm screaming until Eric tells me to shut up and tries to pull me back in his arms. I don't remember leaving them, either. He yanks me up from the floor- when did I get here?- and tries to hug me, to hold me, to _touch_ me, and another scream rips itself from my throat. I tear out of Eric's arms and land with a bang on the floor, and when he tells me to, "Stop moving, you little pussy!" I reach desperately under my bed, brushing away icky dust bunnies and old boxes.

My fingers finally stop scrabbling when they find the thing they're looking for. I pull it out with a flourish under my bed, and press the button. A "VROOO" sound lets me know my lightsaber is in perfect working order. I stick the tip right under Eric's nose, and he stops his advance in surprise.

"What the Hell are you doing, Butters."

"Stay away from me, Eric. You better stay away."

He backs up obediently as I get to my feet and start swinging the saber in what I hope is a threatening manner. He puts up his hands in mock surrender.

"Jesus Christ, Butters, calm the fuck down. I'll stay away. Jeez."

When I look at him disbelievingly, he nods his head earnestly. "I'm seriouslah, Butters. Just go."

And after staring at him tensely for a moment, I do.

I tear out of the room and nearly kill myself racing down the stairs. I fumble with the doorknob. I trip over the concrete steps. I trip over my own feet, to be honest.

Kenny's body lies prone in the grass, barely visible in the dim light coming from the overhead street lamp. I'm hesitant when I get close. His chest his moving up and down so shallowly that at first, I can't even tell he's breathing. But once I notice he is, I race forward and drop to my knees, hands groping for his body, pulling it into my arms desperately. I bury his face in my neck and search his chest for injuries. They're visible. They're very visible.

The entire left side of his body is crumpled and mashed from the impact, his signature parka stained with red coming from several lacerations from the metal. His face is bruised and battered, and a couple teeth are missing as he gives me a weak smile.

"Hey, kiddo."

I let out a wet sob.

He reaches up with a crumpled hand and lets his bloody fingertips trail across my cheek. "God," he says. His voice is a disaster. "You're so damn beautiful, Butters."

"K-K-K-Kenny, I-"

"Shh, shh, it's all good, man. I die all the time, right? I'll come back."

Something tells me he won't. "You're lying."

"No. I'll always come back. I promise."

My eyes are stinging with tears that refuse to fall. He swipes underneath my eyes anyways, before his hand falls limply to his side. His thin chest gives a few more convulsive breaths before his weak smile fades, along with his last few words. The last few words I'm afraid I'll ever hear from him.

"God, I love you."

He stops smiling.

He stops breathing.

I start crying.

* * *

**A/N: :/ Downerrrrr.**

**Also, Stan is such a drama queen. And I have a question for myself. How the Hell did Cartman _not know Kyle was going to get his ass kicked by Wendy?_ You'd think he'd be right there, front row. But the answer is, I don't know, man. I don't think things through and I'm too lazy to change the story line for it.  
**

**Next time: Craig tries to find where Tweek went to, you know, reconcile, Kyle's big ol' nose gets broken, the great Gnome Poop mystery is solved, and Damien makes a cameo.**

**Review, pwease.**


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